


Obliviously Haunted

by catiegeekgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, And Failing Miserably, Anthony is a cat, Aziraphale is a Human, Aziraphale was in the army, Aziraphale's friend died, Based on a Tumblr Post, Crowley is a demon, Crowley is haunting Aziraphale, I don't know what I'm doing, I'm not sure where this is going, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, cause why not, hopefully there's plot in here somewhere, the cat is a sassy bitch, they summon Crowley with Merlot, this was supposed to be a one shot but then I kept writing oops, yes Mr Pratchett is a character deal with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2020-09-19 01:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20322778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catiegeekgirl/pseuds/catiegeekgirl
Summary: There wasn’t much for a demon to do in an empty cottage in Tadfield. After some exploration, Crowley concluded that he was tied to the house. He also concluded that any of his miscreant doings in said house were going completely unnoticed. After only two months, Crowley was ready to pull his metaphysical hair out.And then came the angel.He wasn’t a real angel, of course. A real angel would have stepped into the cottage, immediately sensed the presence of a demon, and gone straight to taking advantage of his unfortunate situation. The stout man in tartan was not, technically, ethereal, but something about his soft cheeks and light blond curls gave him the air of being everything heaven was supposed to be.And Crowley wanted nothing more than to haunt him.





	1. A Demon is Summoned and a Cottage is Bought

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This was based on the Tumblr post by goddammitstacey asking someone to write a story about a ghost becoming increasingly desperate to haunt a family but they have cats and so the ghost goes completely ignored. I thought our boys could fit the scenario pretty well so here we are. I'm also a trash American trying to sound English so please let me know if I missed something. I hope you like it!

Crowley _ hated _ Satanists. 

It hadn’t always been that way. Sure, he’d never exactly _ liked _ them much. Found them rather embarrassing to be honest, what with their chanting and candle rituals and whatnot. They were completely oblivious to their own worthlessness which Crowley found both irritating and sad in an unsatisfying way. But he had no real reason for hating them. That is, until about a month ago.

Most books on Satanism are about as accurate as the bible. Sure, it was reasonable to assume that someone out there had started with some semblance of the truth, but then a bunch of old white men had gotten together and decided to… embellish. Or, in the case of Satanism, lie outright. Quickly learning that angry people against God would believe just about anything, authors of works such as “The Dark Tome,” “The Unholy Bible,” and “The Laws of Our Lord, Lucifer” scribbled anything they could think of, drawing sigils and scribbling spells and gushing about the might of the one and only Satan. The funniest part of all of this was that none of these men had to be tempted into their actions. Man created fear and resentment for the simple promise of riches.

There was, however, one book, (named quite simply “Book”), that was entirely accurate. It contained, to the best of the author’s knowledge, the true story of Lucifer, both before and after his fall, the Underlord’s beliefs on the world, some spells, varying in usefulness, and, most importantly to our tale, explicit instructions on how to summon a demon.

Book had been in possession of an order of Satanic nuns, hidden away in their small library, and had been nicked by four eleven-year-olds.

Adam had thought it a brilliant idea to go snooping through the old chapel, wanting nothing more at that moment than to inconvenience the endlessly talkative nuns. However, once they’d gotten far enough away from the scene of the crime and Pepper had a chance to actually read some of Book, their plans for the night got much more interesting. 

One of the small cottages on the edge of town had recently been moved out of and left, temporarily, abandoned. And what better place, thought The Them, to summon a demon. The front door was locked but the back window had been cracked to allow some fresh air through the house. With some clever maneuvering, (and a stick), they managed to wiggle the window open far enough for Wensleydale to squeeze through. He landed in the dining room of the cottage with a small _ thump _, then quickly brought himself to his feet and straightened his glasses. 

“Smooth work, Wensley. Now go and unlock the door, would you?” Wensley nodded to Adam, then made his way to the front door. The other three stumbled back to the porch in time to hear the soft _ thunk _ of the deadbolt being turned. 

It took a little while for them to find a good place to set up. After some good searching and testing out of different areas in the cottage, Brian’s voice came from somewhere near the kitchen.

“Oi, I think I found something!” The Them collected around a door across from the kitchen that looked to be a pantry.

“Whatcha lookin’ in the pantry for?”

“Well I was looking for some food, but I didn’t find any. Look,” and Brian pried the door open the rest of the way with a grunt and a creak to show a dark room. There was a small string hanging from the ceiling, and when Pepper pulled it, the small dark room was revealed to be a small dark staircase.

“Wicked.” 

Arms still clutching Book, Pepper lead the way down into the cellar.

The summoning spell was surprisingly easy. Brian pulled a can of spray paint from his bag and Wensleydale went back up into the kitchen for some salt. Pepper pulled a smushed candle from her pocket and Adam checked to make sure his lighter was still working. As they gathered around the spray-painted sigil, (Brian had done a surprisingly neat job, having rolled up the rug and put it aside so he would have a smooth working surface), Pepper scanned the page one last time to make sure everything was in order. 

“Oh, wait!” The boys looked up. “We need one last thing. It says a ‘token’ but I don’t think it means a coin.” Everyone leaned over to look at the book.

“I think it depends on who we want to summon.” Wensleydale straightened his glasses and squinted in the low light. “You know, something the demon would like.”

The Them looked at each other, then glanced around the cellar for something that could work. Again, Brian was the first to spot something. “Hey!” He hopped up and jogged to a dark corner of the room, hidden from the soft moonlight that was peaking through the tiny cellar window. There, in an old wooden box, was a dusty bottle of red wine. Brian picked it up with a wide grin. “What about this? We could summon Dionysus.”

“Dionysus is a God, not a demon,” corrected Pepper, and Wensleydale nodded in agreement, but Adam shrugged. 

“Still, could be interesting.” He yanked his Swiss Army knife from his pocket and separated the corkscrew from the other blades. “Finally get to use this one.”

So, with some chanting here, a little spilled wine there, and a flourish of salt on flame, a demon was summoned.

… 

Crowley had been minding his own business, gluing coins to the pavement around London, when he had been yanked rather unceremoniously, (or I suppose, technically, very ceremoniously), to the cellar of a cottage on the edge of Tadfield by a few snot-nosed hooligans. They didn’t know what they had done. The summoning spell summoned the demon only in their purest form, which was to say, not a physical one. He blended seamlessly into the cellar shadows. Summoning, (or at least effective summoning), had gone out of practice centuries ago, and even then, Crowley personally had never had the pleasure of being called upon. Consequently, it took him a few minutes to get his bearings. Looking around, he saw children, paint, a single candle, and… Dammit. Merlot. 

The children, bored with the apparent lack of outcome, had spent the rest of the night throwing the remaining salt at the remaining flame and chatting. Crowley, left with nothing better to do, listened.

Which brings us back to our original point: Crowley hated Satanists.

He hated them for making the whole thing look enticing, he hated them for writing a book that allowed demons to be treated like dogs on a chain, and he hated them for leaving the bloody Book where some (moderately) innocent kids could get to it.

Sometime around midnight, the Them replaced the cellar rug, covering the sigil, and went home, leaving Crowley trapped and alone.

… 

There wasn’t much for a demon to do in an empty cottage in Tadfield. After some exploration, Crowley concluded that he was tied to the house. He could leave the cellar but he couldn’t go outside into the yard. He also concluded that any of his miscreant doings in said house were going completely unnoticed. He thought he could frighten the neighbors by playing with the lights, but the only neighboring house was blocked by trees and a wall of ivy. During the day, there were either no visitors or too many visitors to notice anything strange. The only one ever in the house alone was the realtor, a sweet older lady named Madame Tracy who was either completely oblivious to or completely unbothered by weird drafts, closing doors, and bodiless footsteps. After only two months, Crowley was ready to pull his metaphysical hair out.

And then came the angel.

He wasn’t a real angel, of course. A real angel would have stepped into the cottage, immediately sensed the presence of a demon, and gone straight to taking advantage of his unfortunate situation. The stout man in tartan was not, technically, ethereal, but something about his soft cheeks and light blond curls gave him the air of being everything heaven was supposed to be.

And Crowley wanted nothing more than to haunt him.

Fortunately for Crowley, the angel, (a one Mr. Fell, according to his introduction), liked the cottage very much, saying it felt like there was something nice in it. Crowley bristled at this. He’d be sure to change that.

After a lengthy and thorough inspection of the cottage, including a lot of muttering that often sounded something like “bookshelf here,” Mr. Fell was convinced and offered to buy the place at full price on the spot. Madame Tracy, taken aback but delighted nonetheless, pulled out the paperwork for the man to sign. 

He was to move in the next day.

… 

Mr. A.Z. Fell, full name Aziraphale Zira Fell, (yes, really), was a deceitfully interesting man with a deceitfully interesting life. Anyone who met him on the street would be convinced that he was nothing more than a literary enthusiast who spent his days reading books and drinking tea. Afterall, he often dressed much like an overly cheerful librarian from the 40s, what with his tartan bow tie and cream colored sweater vests or waistcoats, paired with tan trousers and a very old yet still somehow pristine coat. He was, in fact, very fond of both books and tea.

When he was eighteen, Aziraphale had joined the army for one reason and one reason only: free education. He had grown up dirt poor and was horrified at the prospect of saddling his dear parents with any kind of financial burden. Military, he reasoned, was the simplest solution.

Aziraphale had been an excellent soldier but a terrible subordinate, much to the chagrin of his superiors. Eventually, after many late-night meetings in the base bar and more teamwork than high-ranking military officers have shown perhaps since WWII, Aziraphale was honorably discharged a year early and sent off to study literature. He then graduated with his master’s in just five and a half years and was immediately recruited by a man by the name of Mr. Pratchett, who fancied himself a sort of literary Indiana Jones. 

For sixteen years, Aziraphale traveled the world with Mr. Pratchett, finding and collecting some of the rarest books in existence: first editions of almost every classic known to man, works written before the invention of the printing press, extremely rare misprints of bibles, books of prophecy signed by the prophet themselves, and stories that most people didn’t know, or didn’t believe, existed. They would find and repair, trade and sell, becoming household names in the most prestigious of circles. Of course, they kept the best pieces for themselves, amassing a collection to be envied by all the world. 

When Mr. Pratchett had passed away, tragically young in Aziraphale’s opinion, the entirety of his earthly possessions and riches had been left to Aziraphale. This included many things that he didn’t need, including a boat, gems to rival the crown jewels, and a rather awful painting of Elvis on dusty red velvet. Everything but the book collection and the money had been either sold or donated, (except for the velvet Elvis which was thrown in the bin without a second thought.) Aziraphale, having grown up with nothing, now had enough money to live off of for many lifetimes to come. After making sure his aging parents were set up quite nicely, he pondered what to do with himself now that he was rich and out an adventurer.

His first thought was to open a bookshop, a fantasy he had often had while in grad school. It was a tempting option, but with some more thought, Aziraphale knew he could never sell any of the books his old friend had entrusted to him. So, after much deliberation, he decided to move out to the country with his books and maybe even write one of his own.

Oh yeah, and one more thing.

He had a cat.

A beautiful black cat with shining yellow eyes. His name was Anthony and Aziraphale loved him very, very dearly.

The only part of this that Crowley knew was the last bit with the cat. Well, that and the fact that this man was obsessed with old books. Seriously, Crowley didn’t think anyone could fit that many books into such a small cottage. It was ridiculous. It took the man, along with an old grumpy friend with an unplaceable accent, two whole days just to get all of the boxes into the house. (He may not have kept any of Pratchett’s things but he had plenty of his own.) The angel must have been in better shape than he looked, Crowley realized, because he was lifting crates of books without breaking a sweat. 

Crowley watched carefully, telling himself that he needed to gather information in order to properly spook Aziraphale. The truth was, the blond man interested the demon in a way he didn’t know what to do with. 

Did… did he just bring in a _ sword? _

As he watched from his perch on top of the fridge, Crowley figured that at the very least, his days of boredom were over.

This was going to be very interesting.


	2. Cats Have Eyes Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has the perfect idea for how to spook Aziraphale, but it doesn't turn out how he hoped.

It took a little while for Aziraphale to get settled into his new home. Shelves had to be put up, books had to be sorted, the kitchen had to be stocked, and comfy cushions and throw pillows had to be thrown hither and thither to give the entire place the feeling of a nest of sorts. After only two weeks, the sitting room, bedroom, and kitchen all looked thoroughly lived in. There were still plenty of boxes piled up in the dining room and still more hidden away in the cellar, (including numerous cases of very expensive wine, Crowley noted), but Aziraphale felt he had reached the point where he could start concentrating on things other than moving in.

Crowley spent this time not only carefully observing his new unwitting housemate, but thinking about the perfect way to frighten the absolute daylights out of him. There were so many options. Afterall, the man seemed rather… soft. Surely whatever Crowley did, it would be effective. He had been testing his physical limits, seeing what he could do in this form. It had been eons since Crowley didn’t have a body and he still wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. He could make small things move, like curtains or candlelight, he could mess with the building’s electricity, and if he concentrated hard, he could make sounds, but not for very long. What he really wanted to do, however, was manifest visually. He knew that it would take a long time before he could produce an image of his entire body, (or  _ a _ body, as he didn’t technically have one of his own at the moment), but he figured he could manage something small, like a hand, or his fiery hair, or… 

It had been almost a month since Aziraphale first moved in and Crowley was finally ready to start the theatrics. He had been practicing his little trick in the mirror, wanting it to be perfect for the big reveal, careful not to do it in view of any shockingly blue eyes. The demon hadn’t wanted to frighten the angel prematurely and so had stayed away from any spooky behavior that didn’t include blowing on the back of Aziraphale’s neck while the man was trying to read or cook or go to sleep. 

Now, he was hovering beside the bed, less than a shadow, a snoozing Aziraphale next to him. Crowley had discovered over the last month that this man was a very light sleeper, a fact that would serve him well tonight. Excitedly, Crowley made sure he was in the right spot, directly in Aziraphale’s line of sight. Satisfied with his position, the demon blew a cold stream of air onto the sleeping angel’s face. His pale button nose crinkled for a second before his eyes opened, revealing that indescribable blue, even in the darkness of the bedroom. 

And there, half a meter from his face, was a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

Crowley waited for the scream. Even if the color wasn’t enough to suggest something truly terrifying, surely the slitted pupils would leave no doubt.

Aziraphale blinked.

Then, without warning, his round face broke into a wide, dazzling smile. It wasn’t dazzling like a spotlight was dazzling. It was more like a flame, something that glowed with soft warmth and light. It was like the invitation of the hearth, of home after years at sea. 

“Hello, Anthony dear. Don’t just sit there staring at me. Come to bed.”

Crowley felt as if something inside himself had been reduced to rubble. He continued to stare, frozen by Aziraphale’s reaction.

The soft face fell into a slightly annoyed expression, although none of the warmth left his features. “I already fed you. It’s late. Go to sleep.” More staring. “Alright, you don’t have to go to sleep, but I do.” As if to emphasize his point, Aziraphale yawned, and Crowley was sure he had never seen anything so pure in his entire life. “Go look around the house or something, you silly cat.” And with that, he rolled over and soon was softly dozing again.

Crowley felt his nonexistent jaw drop. Looks like this man was going to be a tough nut to crack after all.

... 

After his crushing failure in the bedroom, (not something that had ever happened to him before, mind you), Crowley slunk back down to the cellar. What in the Hell had just happened? He wasn’t a stupid cat! He was a  _ snake _ , dammit! Also, cat eyes weren’t usually  _ disembodied _ . But Aziraphale’s reaction, (or lack thereof), was the least of Crowley’s problems. He sat, as much as a bodiless force of darkness and evil could sit, in the corner of the cellar where Brian had found the bottle of Merlot. No, what bothered Crowley was the horrifying feeling in his chest. Aziraphale  _ had _ to be an angel, or at least a holy being of some kind, in order to cause him this kind of damage. He felt like he was burning, like he was walking on consecrated ground but with his internal organs. Clearly, he would have to take this adversary more seriously, be far more cautious. And he would have to speak with the cat.

Crowley allowed himself a good twenty minutes to calm down and reduce the burning sensation. Finally, he felt sufficiently  _ him _ again and struck out to search the house for the feline.

He had expected this to be a quick chore. After all, he should be able to sense the damn thing. But after a quick mental sweep, Crowley found that the only thing in the house other than himself seemed to be Aziraphale.

And there was that burning again. Was the man made of fucking holy water?

Figuring that the incredibly strong presence of the man sleeping in the bedroom was hiding that of the creature surely slinking about, Crowley resigned himself to physically searching the small cottage. Even so, after over an hour of scouring the place, looking under furniture and behind curtains, in all of the boxes and even between the walls, Crowley found himself empty handed. Great. He couldn’t scare an angel, he couldn’t find a cat, and he couldn’t quite get rid of whatever holy damage the man had managed to cause him.

Preparing to spend the rest of the night wallowing in his own failure, Crowley fell into the shadows of the sitting room sofa and glanced out the front window.

And there he was.

Anthony was sitting in the front garden, tail flicking, front paws placed primly together, and yellow eyes staring directly at Crowley, who immediately got up and rushed to the glass. He glared back out at the stupid animal, doing his upmost to show who was boss. The cat didn’t move but continued to flick its tail back and forth. The two continued to stare at each other unblinkingly, yellow eyes into yellow eyes. 

“You’re mocking me, aren’t you, you little shit?”  _ Flick. Flick. _ “Oh, just because you can leave the house you’re all high and mighty?”  _ Flick. Flick. _ “Come in here and face me like a cat, why don’t you. Or I’m just gonna continue terrorizing your owner. How about that?”

Across the garden, the black cat stopped moving its tail and its whiskers twitched. Crowley had never seen a cat smirk before, but Anthony’s look was undeniable, as was his following statement.

_ Good luck. _

… 

Aziraphale woke up the next morning to find Anthony curled up on one of his pillows, purring softly in his sleep.  _ He must be dreaming _ , Aziraphale thought, moving carefully in an attempt to not wake the cat. His attempt failed and Anthony awoke, looking at his owner with the same beautiful yellow eyes Aziraphale had seen the night before. He scratched the soft black head. 

“Good morning, dear. Do you want breakfast?” Anthony responded with a soft  _ mrow _ and hopped off the bed to head towards the kitchen in case Aziraphale had forgotten where it was.

There wasn’t much to do that day, just as there hadn’t been since he had moved into the cottage in Tadfield. It was odd, going from a life of adventure and constant company, to a life of not really knowing what to do with one’s time. He had thought about offering his expertise online, teaching, book mending, things like that. Aziraphale had a computer, of course, but he rarely used it for anything other than his spreadsheets and word documents, and the only “tech-savvy” person he knew was Anathema’s boyfriend, Newt, and Aziraphale just didn’t trust the poor boy anywhere near his computer. 

At the very least, Aziraphale needed to find a routine. For the last month, he had been doing nothing but sleeping, eating, reading, and going on walks whenever he felt inclined to do so. He couldn’t get himself to start writing about Mr. Pratchett; not yet. He had been roughly introduced to some people in the neighborhood when he had first moved in, but the only ones he had found to be of any interest were a group of kids, and he felt that searching out the company of eleven-year-olds was not the best way to make a good impression on his new neighbors.

So he stayed in. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he really did love spending time in the old cottage. It somehow didn’t make him feel empty like everywhere else did after Pratchett’s death. He thought perhaps it was the result of having Anthony with him as he had never had a pet before him. Would his feline companion explain the sense of comfort and… what was it… protection maybe? that he felt when he was there?

Aziraphale shrugged off his own self-interrogation. There was no need to dwell on the whys and the hows. He had eggs to make and a whole day ahead of him.

And so he didn’t try to explain why he had woken up that morning feeling significantly less lonely than he had in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It looks like I'm actually gonna be able to get somewhere with this fic. I'm really excited to see where I end up with it. I'm planning on posting on Sundays and I already have the next chapter written so hopefully I can keep that up. Kudos and comments are cherished and loved. Tell me what you think! I live for validation.


	3. Crowley Makes a Friend (Sort Of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley consults a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys get an early update because I've been in a writey mood and because I crave validation. This chapter is mostly filler but I hope it's fun anyways.

“What do you  _ mean _ it’s a stupid idea? It’s fucking brilliant is what it is… Do not give me that look, Anthony, I have had enough of your shit today.” From his seat on the counter on the other side of the kitchen, Anthony was giving Crowley the unmistakable cat equivalent of a skeptical eyebrow. “Alright, fine. Let’s hear one of  _ your _ brilliant ideas if mine are such rubbish.”

The demon and the cat had been arguing back and forth for the better part of an hour, one happily lounging in the sunlight coming through the kitchen window onto the counter, (a spot he most certainly was not allowed to be and continued to enjoy anyway), and the other perched on top of the fridge, squeezed between a baking pan and several very large cookbooks. 

Ever since the disastrous eye incident from two weeks before, Crowley had been trying desperately to get a rise out of the angel. However, he had been woefully unsuccessful, due in large part to the furry creature sitting opposite him. It felt like every trick Crowley tried was immediately and completely attributed to cat activity. The very next night, Crowley had stomped around in the space above Aziraphale’s bedroom. Although the footsteps weren’t as loud as he would have hoped, the demon was sure they would at least make the man downstairs uneasy. Instead, Aziraphale had simply mused on how much weight Anthony had gained before returning to his book. 

This went on for several days. Crowley would move things, make unnerving sounds, cause weird drafts, flicker the lights, and  _ everytime _ Aziraphale’s immediate response was to tell Anthony to cut it out. The demon had been sure he finally made an impact when he slammed the cellar door while the man was down with his wine, (ok, it wasn’t quite a  _ slam _ but a firm closing nonetheless), but no. It was as if Aziraphale had never owned a bloody cat before and just assumed all of the general spookiness came with the territory of being a pet owner. (As it were, this was largely the case.)

Anthony watched this activity with mild amusement. He had found the other animals in the neighborhood to be rather boring, with the exception of a dog named Dog, who would have been an excellent companion if it weren’t for the constant presence of his human. The small town did have a lovely countryside with many field mice to be caught, but the monotony soon drove the cat back to the house to check on the demons antics of the night. It wasn’t until Crowley broke a glass, sending chunks of the stuff flying all over the kitchen floor and causing Anthony to get a very firm lecture from Aziraphale, that the cat decided to actually  _ interact _ with the other creature in the house. As there wasn’t anyone else he could communicate with while bodiless, Crowley found that he welcomed the company, no matter how begrudging it may be.

“You just don’t want to get yelled at again,” said Crowley, remembering how the cat had reprimanded him a few days before about the glass. “Well maybe if your owner weren’t such an idiot, you wouldn’t be getting in trouble. This isn’t my fault.” Anthony’s eyes narrowed and his tail started flicking angrily. “Glare at me all you want, you know I’m right. I’m sure he’s very intelligent, what with all his,” Crowley gestured broadly, “books and things, but he’s also a complete and utter idiot.”

Anthony looked as if he were about to pounce and show Crowley just how he felt about the demon’s opinion of his master, but then the man himself stepped into the kitchen, mug in one hand and book in the other. “Anthony, off the counter.” Anthony glanced over at the blond. “Get.” Aziraphale half-heartedly waved his book in Anthony’s general direction. With a small sigh, the cat very lazily got up and stretched before dropping to the floor and heading to the sitting room. Crowley followed.

“You still haven’t answered me. What do you suggest I do, eh? How can I spook the bloke? Any ground-breaking ideas?” Anthony didn’t answer but instead hopped to the back of the sofa and curled up into a little ball of black fluff. “Right. Super helpful, thanks a lot.” Crowley thought for another moment, doing his best to come up with something he hadn’t tried yet that Aziraphale wouldn’t immediately write off. He glanced back at the ball of fluff. “What’s something you can’t do? Something undeniably demonic.” Anthony lifted his small head and looked back at the demon, and his total lack of response was exactly the answer Crowley needed.

“ _ Oh. _ ”

… 

Just like when he had been working on his eye trick, Crowley reduced his spectral activity in order to practice his new skill. At first, the only sounds Crowley could produce, (not including things like steps or scratching, which were made from interacting with his environment rather than produced entirely from his own being), were light breaths or a rather pathetic cough. He would need to be able to produce a full sentence to get the result he wanted, so clearly he had his work cut out for him. It was a little harder to gauge his progress in this case and, if he wanted to keep it a secret from the cottage’s owner, he could only practice when the man was out on one of his walks. The result of all of this was that it took much longer for Crowley to reach a satisfactory level of speech than it had for him to show his eyes.

The sticky summer had turned into a breezy autumn and the first hints of winter were beginning to nip at ears and fingertips by the time Crowley was ready to launch his attack. 

He debated for a long time what he wanted to say. It could mean the difference between a successful haunting and another failed mission, which subsequently would mean a wasted few months. 

First he thought of all the go-to phrases. There was “Get out” or “Red rum” or he could go for the creepy little kid angle with something like “Come play with me” or “Are you my Daddy?” He squashed this last option both because he loathed the idea of acting like a child and because calling Aziraphale “Daddy” would only result in a lot of demonic giggling. He considered this option as well, (the demonic giggling, that is), but quickly discovered that laughter took a lot more energy than simply speaking did, so that was out. 

He could try saying something in another language. Then it wouldn’t matter what he said. The problem with that, however, was 1. the only other language he knew any of was French which was not exactly the most threatening of languages, 2. he knew only two phrases:  _ Une poule a mangé ma soupe _ and  _ Merde, il pleut! _ which meant that 3. if Aziraphale spoke any French, and he seemed like the kind of man who would, he would end up more confused than anything else.

His only option then, he concluded, was to go with something personal.

Crowley sat down and thought about what he knew of the man with the white-gold curls and many books. He had had a lot of time to observe him as the months grew colder and felt he had a fairly firm grasp on who he was. Firstly, he was not the type to sleep in, or sleep much at all for that matter. He would stay up until the wee hours of the morning, reading his books or, sometimes if the weather was nice, (which it somehow always was), he would take a stroll through the garden or around the quiet streets of the small town. Then he would wake up bright and early the next morning, completely refreshed and ready to take on the day. This activity horrified Crowely who had once slept for nearly an entire century and still felt inclined to go back to bed afterwards. (He was, however, a little put out that he had missed the twenties as, from what he could tell through stories from other demons, he would have deeply enjoyed the decade.)

Crowley also knew that Aziraphale preferred black tea and honey in the morning and hot cocoa at night, both of which he often left half drunk and abandoned in favor of one of his books. Crowley tried to pay attention to what kind of books the angel was reading, but try as he might, he couldn’t seem to pick out a pattern. The man read  _ everything _ . Most of his collection seemed to be very old and/or rare, although he did have a bookshelf of modern classics, (Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and, to Crowley’s surprise, a number of books by Stephen King, among others.) The only constant throughout the books was that Aziraphale was very protective of them. He treated every single one with great care and was often found gazing fondly at the shelves around him, a look of tenderness on his face that left no doubt in Crowley’s mind that he was secretly an angel.

Crowley knew that Aziraphale was a good cook but rarely put the time and effort in to do anything about it. There was very little takeout in Tadfield, (and no sushi restaurants, much to his dismay), so Aziraphale found himself skipping a lot of meals. He was beginning to take on the appearance of a once well-fed man who had fallen on hard times, and briefly, Crowley found himself wondering if it had to do with something other than the lack of access to raw fish. But he pushed that thought out of his mind. The man looked perfectly happy. Really, he did. 

And if he didn’t, it was only because he was lonely.

In the near six months Aziraphale had been living in the cottage, he hadn’t had a single visitor. Not one. Starting the moment his grumpy friend had left after helping him move in, the only person who had crossed the threshold had been the angel. Crowley had tried to convince himself that the blond was just a solitary person, that he enjoyed his own company and had no need for anyone else’s. It would have worked, too, if it wasn’t for Aziraphale’s constant conversation with his feline friend and the soft, sad air that would sometimes cross his face, as if looking at something he could never have.

Then Crowley would try to convince himself that it didn’t matter if his roommate was lonely and that he most certainly did not care one way or another.

That didn’t work either.

The only social interaction Aziraphale ever seemed to get was the occasional phone call on his old rotary phone. These phone calls always concluded in one of two ways: Aziraphale warmly assuring the person on the other side of the line that, yes, he was doing just fine, and no, there was no need to visit, then hanging up, or Aziraphale stating in a voice just warm enough to not be rude that, no, the books were still not for sale and, yes, he was absolutely sure, then hanging up.

These facts swirled around in Crowley’s head as he lounged in the sitting room, the afternoon sun making its way through the bleak clouds and the window in an attempt to warm the hardwood floor. Despite the fact that he was ready to finally score a win against the stubborn angel, the effect wouldn’t be right until night fell. After much deliberation, he had decided on his phrase: “Your cocoa is cold.” It was just personal and invasive enough to be creepy without being too heavy-handed. Besides, maybe Crowley could keep the man from wasting a litre of the stuff every month. He had considered threatening the books, but Crowley wasn’t in the business of making threats he had no plans of following through with and he knew, deep down, that he could never bring harm to any of the volumes filling the small cottage. It just seemed  _ wrong _ somehow, and not in the way he liked. No, he liked the cocoa line. He had really nailed it down the week before and had practiced every day since, just to make absolutely sure that he could get the line out cleanly.

Next to him on the sofa, Aziraphale let out a soft hum at something in the book he was reading. This was a rather cute habit of his, Crowley thought. No, wait, not cute. Innocent, maybe, or pure. Everything that went against Crowley’s whole being. But definitely not cute.

Both Crowley’s thoughts and Aziraphale’s reading were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments give me life.


	4. Right Tactics, Wrong Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is finally successful in his endeavors... kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I know this update is a tad late but I had a long weekend and had trouble finding time to finish the chapter. But here it is! I had a lot of fun writing this one so I hope you guys like it.

Aziraphale looked up from his book with furrowed eyebrows. As far as he knew, no one should be visiting, meaning he hadn’t invited anyone to see him at his small cottage. He thought perhaps one of the neighbors had dropped by for something, which would be a tad strange as he hadn’t spoken to any of them since he had moved in. Maybe they needed a cup of sugar or something. That was a thing neighbors did, right? Aziraphale distinctly remembered reading about that once. 

Deciding that it was rather rude for him to leave someone waiting out in the cold, Aziraphale put down his book and went to the door, peering through the small window to get a glimpse of who it was. 

Crowely had followed him across the small sitting room so he had a perfect view of the man’s face as it changed from politely puzzled to a mixture of irritated and exasperated. The only time the demon had seen Aziraphale's face anything like that was on the few occasions he was called by the person interested in buying the books, except this time the look was magnified tenfold. 

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale managed to school his face into something polite yet not very inviting, and opened the door.

“Gabriel.”

“Aziraphale, old friend!” Crowley saw one of Azirapahle’s eyelids twitch at the word “friend.” The man standing in the doorway was tall and well built and spoke in a booming American voice. His hair was dark and well groomed, although it looked like it would be slipping into salt and pepper territory in just a few years. The smile on his face was big and toothy and did not reach his eyes which were as cold as the December sky behind him. Crowley already didn’t like him. He had the air of someone who liked to pretend he was a good man while knowing full well that the opposite was true. The way Crowley saw it, anyone evil should own up to it, be honest and proud of what they were. People like the man in front of him were the true scum of the earth.

“What are you doing in Tadfield?” asked Aziraphale, which sounded a lot like “How did you find me?”

“I ran into Shadwell last week and he told me that he hadn’t seen you since he helped you move in over the summer, so I thought I would swing by and check on you. See how you and the books are doing.”

“Ah, well, we’re both doing fine, as you can see. So nice of you to stop by.” Aziraphale made to close the door, tight professional smile still plastered on his face, when Gabriel spoke again.

“Nice little place you have here.”

“Yes.”

“Looks very cozy, from the outside.”

“Yes.” 

Gabriel was now making exaggerated shivering motions and Aziraphale was adamantly ignoring them.

“Right, well if that’s all-”

“Why don’t I just take a look at your collection, since I’m here?” It was not phrased like a question and before the shorter man could turn him down, Gabriel was pushing his way across the threshold and into the house. He took off his long gray winter coat and all but threw it at Aziraphale. He watched the tall man walk further into the sitting room before unceremoniously dropping the coat onto the floor. Crowley snorted. The coat looked expensive and the foyer was covered in the muddy footprints the man had just tracked in.

“He must have really loved you, to leave you all these books,” Gabriel said, grubby fingers running along the spines of some first editions on top of the nearest bookshelf.

Aziraphale let out a short, frustrated sigh. “As I’ve said before, Gabriel, we weren’t like that. He  _ certainly _ wasn’t like that.”

Crowley blinked. The angel had been  _ left _ these books? And by a rumored gay lover? Crowley had had his suspicions of course, but even so. He catalogued this new information for later.

Gabriel continued running his fingers all over the books on the shelf in front of him, almost searchingly. “Right, right… but still, it’s a shame they’re all being cooped up out here in the country.”

“I assure you they’re all being well looked after. I am familiar with  _ every volume _ and take great care of them.” Gabriel did not miss the warning tone in the other man’s voice but decided to ignore it.

“That seems like a lot of work for one man, especially a man like you.”

And there was that twitch again. “A man like me?”

Gabriel smirked. “You know. Soft. I don’t know how you traveled around with Pratchett being in the shape that you are.”

It was a true testament to Gabriel’s self-involvement and lack of observation skills that he hadn’t noticed any change in Aziraphale’s shape under the oversized jumper and tan trousers. He hadn’t exactly reached  _ thin, _ afterall he would always be a stocky man, but he certainly wasn’t as rotund as he had been just six months before.

Aziraphale could have said a lot of things in response to this. He could have pointed out that he did more research for Pratchett than straightforward adventuring. He could have explained that caring for books was still hardly as demanding as what he had been doing for the last sixteen years. He could have mentioned Gabriel’s sheer lack of knowledge when it came to both caring for rare books and Pratchett’s life. But instead, all he said was, “I manage.”

“So you do.” He straightened up from the shelf with that terrible toothy grin again. “How about a cup of coffee?”

Crowley could actually see the effort it took for Aziraphale to not roll his eyes. “I don’t have any.”

“Right, right, of course. You English.” Aziraphale decided not to point out that the lack of coffee in his home had nothing to do with the fact that he was English, but rather to do with the fact that he did not like the taste and because he had no need for the caffeine that the entire US seemed to be thoroughly addicted to. “Then tea, I guess.” Aziraphale stood there for a moment, stuck between the desire to not be outwardly rude and the fear of encouraging this man to stay in his house any longer. “Just to keep me warm before I head back out. I parked pretty far away.”

Acknowledging that this may be the easiest way to get Gabriel to leave, Aziraphale gave a curt nod and disappeared into the kitchen. Gabriel watched him go, not looking away until he heard the general clatter that came with the process of tea-making. Satisfied that the shorter man was busying himself, Gabriel turned back to the shelf of books.

Crowley had watched this interaction with near fascination. He never got to watch his angel interact with anyone other than Anthony. True, there had been the strange man in the beginning, (Shadwell, Gabriel had called him), but interactions with him could hardly supply a baseline for how someone normally interacted with people, and that had been before Crowley had gotten to know Aziraphale. Crowley had created the assumption that the man was shy and soft-spoken, if even borderline socially anxious. He believed him to be an incredibly polite person with little to no backbone or general respect for himself. For  _ fuck’s sake _ the man wore  _ fucking tartan _ . He drank cocoa before bed and thought the demon haunting his house was his cat. He should have been an absolute wreck in this situation, but instead, he met Gabriel with the confident coolness of royalty being faced with a particularly spoiled child. Crowley was so taken in by what had been happening in front of him that he hadn’t even noticed the burn in his chest increase, (it never fully went away these days.)

But now, Crowley was watching the tall man with suspicion. He looked to be in a hurry, scanning titles on the shelf, occasionally tugging one from its spot, leafing through its pages, then shaking his head and shoving it back where he found it. After a lot of shuffling around on multiple bookcases, he found a book that seemed to be satisfactory. He gave it a good look through, running his hands over the cover and pages, checking and rechecking the title and author, and finally, checking the size. With an appeased smirk, he slipped the volume into his jacket pocket where it fit quite nicely.

If Crowley still had blood, it would be roaring in his ears. This man pesters his angel for months, (at least), shows up on his doorstep with no notice, shoves his way in, insults his figure, demands refreshments, and is now  _ stealing from him? _

“ _ Put. It. Back. _ ” The demonic voice hissed over Gabriel’s ear, making him freeze. His hand still clutched the first edition copy of  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ , one of Aziraphale’s favorites. He seemed to be stealing himself for something. With a small intake of breath, Gabriel turned to look over his shoulder where he had heard the voice. At the sight of the empty room, he shook himself. It wasn’t good form to be hearing things. He turned away from the shelf to go sit on the sofa when he heard it again. 

_ “NOW.”  _ And, gathering every last bit of energy he could, Crowley summoned his gleaming yellow eyes, coming into view mere centimeters from Gabriel’s face.

Crowley had always been more of a tempter than an intimidator, but in that moment, he had enough demonic intimidation to scare straight God herself. All color left Gabriel’s tan face. In one quick motion, he yanked the book back out of his pocket and all but threw it back on the shelf, not bothering to place it back between  _ The Picture of Dorian Grey _ and  _ Salomé _ . 

“ _ Get out, Gabe.” _

“You know what, Aziraphale? I gotta run, I just remembered I have somewhere else to be. Great seeing you!” By the time Aziraphale popped his head out from the kitchen to say something, Gabriel had disappeared out the front door.

… 

The rest of the afternoon was comparitively pleasant after Gabriel had been scoured from the house. Crowley watched Aziraphale sip his tea happily,  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ open on his lap. Having discovered it out of place right away, his angel had immediately checked the book for any signs of damage. Miraculously finding none, he had decided that he would quite like to read it again and settled down on his spot on the sofa. Crowley sat next to him, allowing the weak sunbeams to shine down on whatever he was at that moment. He was exhausted but contented by the afternoons activities. Gabriel may not have been his original target, but he had finally managed to spook someone, and the satisfaction of a job well done was enough to last him a while. Sure, he would try his angel again, but it could wait.

Behind them, Anthony was curled up on the back of the sofa. His tail flicked contendely as he wondered how long it would take the demon to realize that he had started referring to the angel as  _ his _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right. We're bringing people in. The next chapter is going to be a lot of Aziraphale, so get ready for that. I'm really excited for you guys to read it so I might update sooner then Sunday. We'll see. As always, validation through kudos and comments is what I live for.


	5. Midnight Callers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale falls back on old habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess we're doing some angst in this fic now??? And I started out with such light-hearted intentions. This shouldn't be the norm but I'm just really loving this version of Aziraphale and am consequently spending way too much time thinking about his background and stuff. The next chapter should have more Crowley in it cause the good demon boy needs some love too. Anyway, I wanted to give a shout out to you awesome people for the kudos and comments. They are so incredibly heartwarming and make me that much more invested in this story. I appreciate you like crazy and I really hope you like where this is going. Enjoy!

Aziraphale found it hard to sleep that night. Harder than usual, that is. He had finished reading  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ hours ago but couldn’t decide on the next thing to read. Gabriel’s visit, although thankfully cut short, still weighed on his mind. The absolute  _ audacity _ of the man made Aziraphale want to punch something, which was not a way he had felt in a long time.

Accepting that he wouldn’t get anywhere laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, the angel let out a sigh and got up. 

It wasn’t odd, necessarily, for the man to get up in the middle of the night, whether to find another book or go on a late night stroll or what have you, so Crowley didn’t pay it much mind when the bedroom door opened and a tired yet disgruntled man emerged and softly padded through the house. However, when that same man emerged from the cellar holding a sword and started making his way towards the back door, Crowley’s curiosity, (and slight concern), got the better of him.

Aziraphale hadn’t done this in many years, not since his first big fight with Pratchett when the older man had nearly gotten himself killed while snooping around some giant ancient cave. (Aziraphale had  _ told _ him it was far too dangerous, but the adventurous man felt the risk was worth whatever prize  _ might _ be hidden in there.) That had been over a decade ago. 

However, back in his military days, Tai Chi had been almost a nightly routine. Being in the army was stressful, after all, and even more so when all of your superiors hated you. They thought he didn’t know about their disdain but Aziraphale wasn’t as oblivious as everyone always assumed. He was intelligent, perceptive, and especially good at reading people and their emotions. 

He did his utmost to hide his heavy heart, not wanting to give his fellow soldiers any more reason to nag at him, and for the most part he was successful. It wasn’t until he got into a particularly nasty argument with one of his Sergeants, (all the Privates called her War behind her back, not because it was a rude nickname but because she would have liked it), that he let his mask slip. He had been put on lavatory duty with another man who, upon seeing the near murderous intent behind the blue eyes, had offered to teach him a way to keep calm and grounded. 

Aziraphale couldn’t even remember the man’s face now, let alone his name. He had been transferred not long after, (probably War’s doing), but by then, Aziraphale had learned enough to be getting on with. He managed to get some books on the subject on one of his days off, and after five years, not only had he managed to keep from arguing with anyone else, superior or otherwise, he had also become the best sword fighter in his platoon.

The rapier felt comforting and familiar in the angel’s hand. It wasn’t exactly perfect for this purpose but it’s what Aziraphale had become accustomed to. It was straight-bladed and well-balanced which was really all he could ask for.

Standing on the soft grass of his back garden, sword held behind him in his left hand, Aziraphale took a deep breath, eyes closed, and grounded himself the best he could. Then, opening his eyes, he allowed muscle memory to take over.

From the kitchen window, a demon and a cat watched intently. It was mesmerizing, the smooth and deliberate motions almost hypnotic. Crowley had been observing the man for months now and had come up with a lot of descriptions for him: soft, innocent, intelligent, oblivious, (certainly  _ not _ cute… really), but watching the moonlight glint off of the sword’s edge and the platinum curls, the demon added “graceful” to his mental list. (Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, he also added “beautiful.”)

Aziraphale went through the 32 forms he knew, then did them again. Then he started branching out, calling to memory some of the more complicated forms. He racked his brain, moving his body in every way he had learned to all that time ago, doing it over and over, allowing the stress and anger of the day to leave with his breath. 

And it did.

By the end of an hour, Aziraphale felt calm and centered with no further desire to hunt Gabriel down and sock him squarely in the nose. Yet, for the first time, Tai Chi left him feeling somehow unfulfilled. He had obtained the results he’d been expecting but it still felt like something was missing. He felt almost… cold. But not physically. In fact he was actually quite warm and feeling in need of a glass of water. Sheathing his sword with the swiftness of a practiced soldier, Aziraphale headed into his small kitchen.

It took until he had grabbed himself a glass, filled it from the pitcher in the fridge, and drained it for Aziraphale to realize that, quite suddenly it seemed to him, he felt very  _ warm _ , and not in the physical sense. This greatly puzzled the man. All he had done was get a drink. He severely doubted the cold feeling had been due to dehydration.

A soft pressure at his ankles interrupted his thoughts. Curling himself between Aziraphale’s feet was Anthony, purring softly. Well, that had to be it, he decided. He had just been missing his cat.

The man had no way of knowing that the warm feeling in his chest and his gut and his head had much more to do with the demon watching carefully from the windowsill than the small black creature at his feet. Although, to be fair, the demon had no idea either.

The only one who  _ did _ have any idea was lazily making his way into the sitting room, followed by a contented angel and a dazzled demon.

There was a soft flurry of particles in the moonlight as Aziraphale sat down on the sofa. He was still clutching the handle of his sword, the blade laid carefully across his lap. It was true that being in the house made him feel that strange warm comfort that he seemed to crave, but his sword offered the familiarity that he desperately needed in that moment. So there he sat, sword in his lap, cat next to his head, and demon watching over him from the other side of the sofa.

Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with the current situation. He had seen a lot of his angel today that he would never had guessed was there, and he took in every last detail of the man like a researcher getting special access to his subject. He had learned that the man had been given his books by a close… someone who had since passed, he learned that there was at least one persistent buyer (read: bastard) that Aziraphale had managed to keep at bay for what seemed like at least a few years, he learned that there had been rumors about his angel that the man was used to dealing with, he learned that the blond was exceptionally skilled with a sword, (which, in light of the rumors, made Crowely giggle demonically again), and, most importantly, he learned that the angel was, in fact, a little bit of a bastard. 

It was this last bit that not only interested Crowley the most, but concerned him the most as well. Some of the things Aziraphale had done that day had been decidedly not-holy, yet those things made the burning sensation in the demon’s chest only grow stronger. But if the internal burning was caused by some divine force, it didn’t follow that the man’s more…  _ mischievous _ deeds would make the burning worse. So what  _ was  _ it?

The angel and the demon sitting on the sofa were both so lost in their own thoughts that they almost didn’t hear the front door open.

The man creeping through the doorway didn’t immediately notice Aziraphale, peering instead into the bedroom. 

Time seemed to freeze, allowing everyone seated on the sofa a chance to take in the intruder. He was fairly short and almost entirely round, his greasy bald head balanced on top of his shoulders. He wore mostly gray, his trousers and coat looking as if they had once been quite nice but had since been worn to near ruin. His right hand held a small pistol limply at his side.

Alarm bells were ringing in Crowley’s head. There was an intruder in the house and he had a firearm. Aziraphale only had an old sword. He had brought a glorified knife to a gun fight, and there was absolutely nothing Crowley could do to help. He had used everything he had to chase Gabriel away. The most he could hope to accomplish at that moment was to cause the other man to suddenly feel a bit chilly.

Seeing that the bedroom door was open and the bed empty, the intruder turned to locate the owner of the house.

Aziraphale moved without a sound. By the time the other man realized he was there and raised his weapon, Aziraphale was already upon him. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the man’s right wrist with his left and turned into him so the intruder could see nothing but a head of curly blond hair. Azirahale brought the hilt of his sword down on the man’s forearm, landing squarely on the bone. There was a loud clunk as the gun hit the floor, but the intruder didn’t register the sound as an elbow was brought sharply back into his diaphragm, leaving him entirely breathless. Aziraphale, keeping hold of the man’s wrist, ducked under his right arm and stepped back so their positions were now switched, the man’s right arm pinned behind him with Aziraphale’s left, rapier held tightly to his throat.

“Now, would you mind telling me who you are and what you’re doing in my home?” The man was stunned into silence. His brain seemed to be attempting to catch up to what had just happened. Behind him, Aziraphale tugged his arm a hair higher and pressed the rapier tighter to his throat. “I’ve had a rather stressful day, so you’ll have to forgive me for being less than patient. Your name?”

The man tried to swallow but failed on accord of the rapier, which had been dulled by the decades it spent in its sheath but was still sharp enough to cause permanent damage. “Sandalphon.”

Aziraphale let out a soft sigh, not releasing the man’s arm but allowing the sword to drop to his side. “So you’re one of Gabriel’s then.” 

“I don’t  _ belong _ to Gabriel, thank you.” Even in his current situation, Sandalphon managed to have a note of indignation in his voice.

“But he did hire you?”

“Well… yes, he did. And he didn’t tell me that you have any bloody sword. Said it should be a right easy job, that you should be asleep and even if you weren’t I should be able to take you, no problem.”

Aziraphale bristled at this. Did he really look that helpless? “Right. Well then, you can tell Gabriel to forget about obtaining any of my books, legally or otherwise. He is fighting a losing battle, and if he or any of his associates show their face here again, I will not hesitate to call the authorities and defend myself however I see fit. Are we understood?”

Sandalphon stayed silent. In his head a war raged: on one side, his fear of the man who had hired him, on the other, his fear of this surprisingly dangerous book keeper. After a moment, Aziraphale brought the rapier back to the would-be burglar’s throat. “I asked you if we are understood.” The latter side won and Sandolphon nodded ever so slightly. “Good. I’ll be happy to show you out.” The angel swung the round man around, opened the front door with his sword hand, and shoved with his left. Sandolphon stumbled into the front garden and Aziraphale slammed the door after him.

Now that the intruder was dealt with and gone, Aziraphale took a deep breath, allowing the tension to leave his shoulders and fingers. He really hadn’t expected Gabriel to go this far, but he couldn’t quite say he was surprised either.

The pistol still sat on the hardwood of the foyer. Aziraphale reached down to pick it up, then walked back into the sitting room. He sheathed his sword, then unloaded the gun, just as he had been taught all those years ago. Aziraphale really didn’t like guns, but he knew how to use them. There were only nine rounds in the cartridge. He wondered, with a dull ache, what had happened to the tenth.

The tired man looked at the weapons laid out in front of him. He had really thought, hoped, that these days were far behind him. His military experience had been part of the reason Pratchett had recruited him. There had been times in their adventures together, more than Aziraphale could count, that he had had to use his training in one way or another. The occurrences had lessened the older the two got, but Aziraphale was never disillusioned about the nature of his job. Or lifestyle, really. Still, he was supposed to be retired.

With a long sigh, the angel stood, sheathed sword in one hand and unloaded pistol in the other. He slipped the ammo into his pocket and made his way to the cellar. He would put everything away then go to bed. He needed to sleep, oh Lord did he need to sleep.

As blond curls disappeared into the kitchen, Crowley tried to pick his jaw up off of his lap. He had just watched his angel calmly apprehend an armed intruder, extract information from him, threaten him, and kick him out, not to mention he had handled the gun with a familiarity that the demon never would have expected from the soft man.

He turned to the black cat. “Did you know he could do that?”

Anthony looked up at the demon and gave what Crowley took to be a tiny feline shrug.

Aziraphale slept with his sword beside him that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some much needed BAMF Aziraphale. I'm gonna try really hard to keep to my update schedule but I'll be really busy starting soon so updates might be coming a little slower. But I am dedicated to finishing this, dammit! As always, please feel free to let me know what you think. All feedback is good feedback and I love hearing from you glorious people.


	6. A Heart to Heart, and Some Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale catches up with a concerned friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! SO my American ass is going to London for school in a week and I don't know how much time I'll have to write, so I'm gonna try to get as much written and posted before I go. In a perfect world, it would be done before I leave, but that might be a little too optimistic. We're probably looking at about ten chapters here so it depends on how crazed I get. Anyway, this chapter is mostly filler but I still hope you guys like it. I'll be posting again later tonight, so look forward to that. Onward!

The next morning, there was a phone call. Aziraphale groaned at the din, pressing his face deeper into his pillow and hoping the wretched sound would just go away. There was a brief, merciful pause after the phone had rung for about thirty seconds, but then it started up again. Aziraphale sat up with a huff. Especially considering the events of the previous day, there was only one person that could be calling, and Aziraphale knew she would continue to call for quite a while if he didn’t answer. 

He rolled out of bed with a sigh, taking care not to step on the sword resting on the floor, and picked up the rotary receiver.

“Yes, hello?” His voice was thick and slow with sleep, a sound that Crowley had never heard before. He had begun to believe it was ruddy impossible for the man to be under-rested. Placing himself in one of the soft armchairs, the demon watched the one-sided conversation with interest.

“Yes, dear, I was… Well it is rather early… I wouldn’t say  _ never _ , dear, I have my rough nights just like anyone else… Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that- … Because, well, because I was up rather late… No, not reading… I was only spending some time in the garden… Why do you assume I was doing anything? … Yes, alright, I suppose. But I was only doing some Tai Chi. You know, to relax… Nothing  _ happened _ , really, it just, I was just, oh bother. Alright, alright, I was just a tad bit stressed because Gabriel popped overBUT IT’S FINE, EVERYTHING’S FINE, he left without too much trouble, but he just, he always makes me angry and I found that I was having some trouble sleeping last night so I decided to dust off my old army sword and calm myself down for a bit and I was only taking a rest in the sitting room - Tai Chi is rather physically demanding, you know, despite what it may look like - I was resting in the sitting room and… well… everything’s fine, dear, I’m perfectly fine, but… a man broke into the house and I had to disarm him.” This last statement came out all in one breath and was immediately followed by a very loud “WHAT?!” from the other side of the line. “But there really is nothing for you to worry about, dear, really there isn’t… I didn’t think it was necessary to call- there’s no need for that- but- Anathema, wait- I-” But the line was dead and Aziraphale’s words reached no further than the walls of his cottage.

The blond man gave a very long sigh and put the receiver back on its base. Crowley was staring at the phone, thoroughly curious about this Anathema girl. Clearly she cared about his angel to check in on him on a relatively regular basis and, from what he could gather from Aziraphale’s side of the conversation, she was an intelligent, straightforward, and headstrong woman. Crowley thought there weren’t enough of those in the world. 

Anthony, who was curled up on the table next to the phone, gave a soft meow and rubbed his head against his owner’s wrist. Aziraphale obliged and scratched behind the soft black ears. “It appears we’ll be having a visitor, Anthony.” He glanced at his reflection in the gray front window and frowned. “Oh dear. She really is going to give me Hell, isn’t she?”

… 

Just over an hour after she had hung up the phone, Anathema was knocking on the cottage’s front door. Aziraphale, who had been preparing tea, put the spoon back in the sugar and shuffled to the front of the house. When he opened the door, the look on the tall woman’s face had been half delighted, half concerned. Once she’d had a good look at her friend, however, the concern took over. “Aziraphale… you look  _ terrible _ .”

“Lovely to see you as well, dear. Come in.” Aziraphale knew she was right, of course. He had done his best to clean himself up in the hour before she arrived, but there was only so much he could do. Even Crowley acknowledged that the man was looking a little worse for wear. His tan trousers were cinched at the waist by a leather belt and his shirt hung loosely on him, only partially hidden by the argyle sweater vest he wore over it. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin, rather than looking milky as it usually did, had the appearance of wet paper. Even in the late morning sun, his platinum curls looked slightly limp, like the spring had been taken out of them, and his blue eyes looked shallow, not containing the same depth Crowely had come accustomed to. 

But he was smiling, warmly and brightly, at his friend as she took a seat at his table and accepted the cup of tea handed to her. It was true that Aziraphale had not had (welcomed) guests in quite a long time, but old habits die hard and he was nothing if not a gentleman. He sat down next to her with his own cup of tea, taking a long sip, and a little bit of his glow seemed to return to his cheeks and eyes. Yes, he had had a long night, but he had had long nights before and was perfectly capable of recovering from one.

Being as preoccupied with staring at his angel as he was, (as was often the case these days), it took Crowley a moment to turn his attention back to the guest. 

The guest that appeared to be staring right at him.

Crowley reflexively looked down to check if he was suddenly corporeal, but no. He was most certainly nothing more than folded shadow and thought, just as he had been for the last six months. He looked back up at the girl, (Anathema? What an odd name for someone who clearly cared so deeply) only to find her still looking in his direction. Unsure of how to react, Crowley took a couple steps to his right. Anathema blinked and looked away.

The truth was, Crowley was not made of simply folded shadow and thought, but rather folded shadow and thought and  _ feelings _ , and it was these feelings that Anathema Device had taken notice of. She had never been a terribly good medium, but she was especially gifted when it came to auras, and Crowley’s was hard to miss. 

But bodiless auras were not Anathema’s main concern at that moment. Her main concern was her friend, who was much thinner than he had been the last time they met. “Have you been eating?”

“Of course I have, dear. Look who you’re talking to.” Aziraphale attempted a teasing smile but Anathema wasn’t having it.

“I am. That’s why I’m concerned.”

“No need to be concerned, dear girl. I’m just not terribly used to being out in the country, I’m afraid. One takes takeaway quite for granted until it’s no longer available.”

“That’s not an excuse to not be eating.”

“I  _ am _ eating!” the angel responded indignantly, not at all used to being accused of a lack of appetite.

Anathema raise one sculpted eyebrow. “What did you have for dinner last night?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer before realizing he didn’t have one. “I… well, yesterday was a special case, wasn’t it? I was distracted. Hardly the norm, my dear.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, both sipping at their tea. 

“You miss him, don’t you?” Anathema’s voice was very soft, her eyes not leaving the now empty cup clutched between her hands.

Aziraphale let out a sigh through his nose. “Yes, I do. Of course I do. I miss everything about him and what my life was like and I miss the city and good food and our conversations and that stupid Velvet Elvis that he liked even though it was atrocious. I lost a lot when he died, dear, I won’t deny that, but…” a small smile played at the man’s lips as he glanced around the kitchen, his eyes seeming to see more than just the cabinets and appliances, “I  _ like _ it here. I really do. And it’s true that I haven’t quite adjusted to a new way of life but I’m  _ working on it _ . Truly I am. And, for some ineffable reason, being in this house makes me feel like everything is going to be ok, like I don’t have to miss everything so much because there’s still an entire life to look forward to.” Aziraphale turned back to his friend, looking sheepish. “I don’t know why that is, but… well, does any of this make any sense?”

Anathema looked at him for a moment, then slowly nodded, mouth mirroring the tiny smile on her friend’s face. “Yeah, it does.”

“Oh good. I was worried for a while that I was beginning to lose it. Getting overly attached to cottages in the middle of the country.”

“I think it must have something to do with the presence.” Anathema went to take another sip of tea before remembering it was all gone, then looked back up at Aziraphale who was staring at her. “What?”

“Has something to do with the what?”

“The presence. Warm, kinda fuzzy, all dark.”

Aziraphale just blinked at her for a moment, then something seemed to click in his brain. “Oh! You mean Anthony?”

Anathema snorted, not because of Aziraphale’s question, but because of the very interesting color the mystery aura had just turned. Since they had sat at the table, the aura had been cycling through a number of different colors: orange, blue, gray, yellow, pink, but at Aziraphale’s words, it had immediately gone to a deeply intense purple with red around the edges. It was not a color Anathema saw often, but somehow she knew exactly what it meant: exasperation. 

“Yes, right, Anthony. That must be it.” Anathema cleared her throat. “On an entirely unrelated note, have you noticed any weird things happening in this house?”

Aziraphale looked at her quizzically over his tea cup. “Weird how, dear?”

“Oh, you know… Weird sounds, things getting moved, a feeling like you’re being watched.” She shrugged with faux nonchalance. “Things like that.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, every now and then Anthony will move things around or be especially noisy in the attic while I’m trying to sleep, but that’s to be expected when one has a cat, isn’t it?” He took a sip of tea. “Why do you ask?”

Anathema worked very hard to keep her face neutral. “Oh, no reason. Just checking that your new place is safe and stuff, you know.” Aziraphale seemed to accept this answer and took another sip of tea. Anathema glanced back at the aura whose intensity had lessened, although the color was still that deep purple. “Aziraphale, I’m feeling a bit hungry. Do you think you could grab some lunch?”

“Oh, I would, but I’m afraid there’s not much in the fridge. I need to go to the store this weekend.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure there’s at least one place that does takeaway in this town.”

“There is.” Aziraphale drank the last of his tea and put his cup down in front of him. “I suppose we could head out and grab something, if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, no,” Anathema said hastily. At the sight of her friend’s raised eyebrow, however, she quickly backtracked. “I mean, yes, I’m hungry, but I should stay here and watch the house. You know, just in case.”

“I couldn’t just leave you here alone, my dear. That’s rude. There’s no need to worry about the house.”

“Yes there is!” Anathema allowed herself to be just a little more dramatic than usual. “You just had a break in  _ last night _ . I don’t think your stuff should be left unattended.” Aziraphale looked utterly baffled but Anathema pressed on. “I would offer to go myself but I don’t know where anything is and I wouldn’t know what to order anyway, so…” The two looked at each other for a moment. Eventually, Aziraphale spoke up.

“We don’t really have to get food right this second-”

“Yes we do. You haven’t eaten since God knows when and I’m personally starving.”

The man let out a small sigh and ran his fingers through his curls. “Alright, alright. I suppose I can just borrow your car-”

“Oh, I’m almost out of gas- er, petrol. Whatever. Tank’s practically empty. And besides, isn’t it a nice day for a walk? Not too cold, clear skies. You should really take advantage of nice weather this time of year.”

Crowley watched as the gears in his angel’s head turned. Clearly there was something going on with his friend that had nothing to do with her desire for a sandwich, but he knew that she wouldn’t explain what she didn’t want to and he simply didn’t have the energy to fight her on it. So, with a shake of his head, Aziraphale pushed back his chair and stood. “What would you like, dear?”

“Surprise me. I trust your judgement.”

The blond man nodded, left the kitchen, grabbed his coat, and headed out, closing the door softly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is a little bit lighter than all this sudden angst and we FINALLY get some real Crowley screen time. As always, your kudos and comments light up my day and I appreciate and love all of you for taking the time to read my mind baby <3


	7. Snooping of the Witchy Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lovely chat is had... in the cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in the same night? I know, crazy, right? I really had a lot of fun writing this one so I hope you guys have as much fun reading. Let me know!

At the sound of the front door closing, Anathema hopped up from her spot at the kitchen table and rushed to the front window. She watched her friend make his way down the street until he turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Satisfied that she was alone(ish), Anathema estimated that she had about 45 minutes to conduct her business and immediately went about snooping. 

This part should have been easy enough. She figured there was a pretty good chance that what she needed would be in the cellar and that it really shouldn’t take her long to find it once she was down there. What she hadn’t expected was to be unable to find the cellar entrance in the first place. After ten minutes of searching over every room in the house, she still came up empty. Trying to ignore the aura in the sitting room that had turned and amused orange-yellow, Anathema wondered if there was a trap door entrance or something. She also wondered when she had gotten so fervently hungry and opened the pantry to look for something small to tide herself over until Aziraphale got back.

But instead of finding food behind the small white door, Anathema found stairs leading down. She smacked herself in the forehead, heaving a great sigh before descending the dark stairs, muttering all the while something that sounded like “You are  _ such _ a fucking idiot sometimes, you know that. A total and complete dunce.”

The cellar was a pretty good size but appeared much smaller than it actually was due to the great number of boxes piled inside. Anathema, realizing that she was going to have to do some actual work, pulled her long dark hair into a high bun and pushed up her long sleeves.

“I bet it’s under the rug, isn’t it?” she grumbled, approaching a crate of wine bottles. “It’s always under the rug…”

Crowley and Anthony both sat by the stairs, watching the young woman push and pull and lift boxes and boxes of books and wine and knickknacks this way and that, placing bets on how and when she would manage to hurt herself. (Anthony won. She dropped a box of books on her foot not five minutes in.) 

After what felt like an eternity but was really no time at all, Anathema was able to roll up the large old rug. “Ah ha! Found you!” And indeed, sitting there in practically the same shape as the day it was made, was Crowley’s summoning circle. Once it was completely uncovered, she took a good look around it, then stepped inside, taking a deep breath. It was then that she noticed the red stain at the circle’s center. “Oh, I really hope that isn’t blood.” She pressed her eyes shut and took another breath. “Please tell me that isn’t blood. Nothing good comes from blood rituals.”

Crowley gave a small sigh and looked to his feline friend. “What a waste of a good merlot, eh?”

Because he was talking to the cat and not to the weird woman in the middle of the room, Crowley didn’t see her eyes snap open. He did, however, hear her next words. “What did you just say?”

Crowley turned on the girl, eyes wide. “Wait, can you hear me? Can you  _ see _ me?”

Anathema swallowed, then slowly nodded. “I can hear you, although I’m not really sure about seeing. It’s dark and you’re already kinda… shadowy.”

“Right.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Right. And how, exactly, are you doing that?”

Anathema, very suddenly but completely certain that she was in no danger whatsoever, broke out into a wide grin and plopped herself down on the floor, right on top of the wine stain. “I’m a witch.”

“Of fucking course you are. The bloody bastard is secretly a ninja and is also friends with a goddam witch. Why the fuck not?”

“So you’ve been looking after him since he’s been here? Keeping an eye?”

“Yeah, ‘spose. In a manner of speaking.”

“You’re awfully nice for a demon, you know that?”

In half a moment, the entire cellar was very cold and the bleak December light coming through the small window seemed to dim, almost as if a shadow had settled on the room. “ _ I am not NICE. _ ” Crowley’s voice came out as a hiss, sending a shiver down Anathema’s spine. However, despite all the theatrics, she didn’t feel overly threatened. Something deep inside of her told her that the shadowy figure on the stairs was not necessarily intrinsically good, but was intrinsically trustworthy. She had no other evidence for being unafraid, and had she not had this strange gut feeling, she would be out of that house in the blink of an eye. But Anathema had learned a long time ago to trust her gut instincts. It often served her well in her line of work. She schooled her face into something more serious.

“Sure, right, not nice. Absolutely… Then what are you, exactly?”

Crowley huffed indignantly. “What do you mean, what am I? I’m a ruddy demon, aren’t I?”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yeah.” Anathema looked at him, politely waiting for the demon to finish his statement, completely aware that he didn’t want to. He stared back. Two could play at this game.

But only one could win.

“Crowley,” he let out with a sigh. “Name’s Crowley.”

“I’m Anathema. So, Crowley, why exactly are you trying to scare my oblivious friend?”

“Because I’m fucking  _ bored _ , that’s why. And what part of ‘demon’ did you not understand? It’s kind of my bloody job.”

Anathema couldn’t stop the small smile that was pulling at her lips. “Well, to be honest, I’m less curious about why a demon would want to scare any random guy, and more curious about why specifically you are trying to scare specifically Aziraphale, someone whom you clearly care about.”

The silence that followed rung like a bell. It pressed on Anathema’s ears and made Anthony yowl unpleasantly. “I’m sorry, someone whom I  _ what _ ?”

“Clearly care about.” Anathema’s voice was slightly softer but her tone was just as comfortable. She was not intimidated, and she was sure of what she was saying. “I could tell almost as soon as I walked in. There’s love in this place. And at first I thought it was just Aziraphale, cause that’s just what he’s like, you know? But his love is different, all encompassing and gentle. Not like yours. Yours is…” Anathema looked around as if the word she was looking for would be etched into one of the walls. “Yours is  _ protective _ , almost hard. Like a shield. And it’s all directed at Aziraphale. Well, and Anthony, a little bit.” She looked back up at the figure on the stairs. She couldn’t get a read on his aura. It was like it was trying to be nothing and everything at the same time. “If I had to guess, I would say you probably have a lot of it to give - love, that is - you just haven’t really had the chance.”

Anthony meowed softly in the silence, attempting to rub his head on the densest bit of shadow next to him. “Love isn’t really a thing demons do, you know,” Crowley eventually spoke up. “Not really in our vocabulary. At least, not in that sense.”

“In what sense is it, then?”

Crowley thought for a moment, scratching his semi-existent jaw. “Well, I know lots of folks who deal in obsessive love, you know. Temptation and all that. I’m not shabby at it myself but I prefer to deal in irritation. I  _ love _ irritation. You know, little things on a big scale. I was gluing coins to the pavement when I got dragged here, actually. And I love my Bentley. She’s a real beauty, had her almost a century now. Poor thing’s been neglected while I’m stuck here. And I love wine, the way it tastes and the way it makes you feel and all the utterly brilliant things it makes people do.” There was a small pause as Crowley absentmindedly ran a finger down Anthony’s spine. “But none of those things are real  _ love _ . They’re enjoyment, maybe, or even attachment, something that balances out the general disdain I have for existence. But it sure as fuck isn’t  _ love _ .”

Anathema allowed that to sink in. She didn’t know much about demons, but from what she did know, this one seemed to be different, not unlike a child in a way. Mischievous, sure, sinful, by nature, but not malicious. Not evil. At his core, he seemed good natured, which was an odd, and very promising, thing for a demon to be. This could be fun.

“Would… would you say that… You wanna know what love is?”

Anathema could feel the blank stare, even if she couldn’t see it. “What?”

“Do you want him to show you?” Anathema tried with all her might to keep a neutral expression, really, she did, and for a second the witch and the demon just stared at each other. Then Anathema let out a loud snort, and immediately descended into a fit of giggles.

“Oh, I bet you think you’re right hilarious, don’t you? Real funny.” Anathema would have answered except she wasn’t capable of taking full breaths just yet. “Cut that out, will you? You’ll make yourself pass out and then what’ll I do with you?”

Anathema eventually calmed down, wiping a small tear from the corner of her eye and taking a deep breath. “But I was right, wasn’t I?”

“No, you weren’t, actually. I have no interest in…” he waved his shadowy hand, which had an interesting visual effect in the dim light of the cellar, “all that gooey rubbish. I’m perfectly content with my demonic ways, thanks.”

“Then why haven’t you left?”

“Can’t, can I? Stuck here ‘cause of that bloody thing.” He gestured toward the circle Anathema was still sitting in. Anathema stared at him, then at the circle, then back.  _ Interesting…  _

“Right, right. Of course. The circle and the sigils and everything. Binding sigils. So you can’t leave the house, even if you wanted to.”

“Of  _ course _ I want to. Haven’t you been listening? I would do anything to get out of here. There’s nothing to do, I miss my car, and the only one to keep me company is this ruddy cat.” Anthony, who had been resting contentedly against Crowley’s thigh, sat up and gave a yowl of protest. Crowley ignored him. “I’ve tried, but I can’t go farther than the door.”

Anathema figured it was a good idea to change the subject before she cracked a smile and gave herself away. “So who summoned you here anyway? I know there’s some nuns nearby that are definitely more than a little suspicious. Or maybe a small cult? Solo worshipper?”

The shadows that made up Crowley’s face deepened, his arms crossed over his chest. “Kids,” he grumbled.

Anathema blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“I said  _ kids _ . Children. Four of them. Got their grubby little hands on a book from those stupid Satanist nuns. Thought it would be interesting, having absolutely  _ no _ idea what they were messing with. Didn’t even know they were successful, the little brats. I was stuck here alone with nothing to do for two months before angel-” Crowley went very still. He had not meant to say it. The word had just slipped out without permission from the speaker.

Anthema may have thought little of the pet name if it wasn’t for the demon’s reaction. That was the aura of accidental honesty. A sly grin spread across her handsome features. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. Before  _ whom? _ ”

Beside him, Anthony was snickering in that feline way that he had. Crowley attempted to clear his throat. He was successful on the third try. “Um, when he first got here, he seemed like he could be an angel in disguise, what with that way about him that he has, and Aziraphale is a bloody long name, you know, and even though I’m  _ pretty _ sure he’s completely human the name just kinda stuck cause it’s easier to say, not that I talk about him much, I only have Anthony to talk to anyway, it’s just what I call him in my head, not that I think about him enough to really worry about that, it’s just a stupid habit that I built up, it really doesn’t mean anything so would you wipe that  _ stupid _ grin off your face.” Crowley was rather lucky that he didn’t need to breath because he would not have been able to get through his little speech otherwise.

“You  _ like _ him,” goaded Anathema, said stupid grin going no where. “Oh, you  _ totally _ like him. Oh this is awesome.”

“It is not awesome, I do not like anyone. It’s one of my defining characteristics.” Crowely was undeniably pouting.

“Maybe you didn’t like anyone because you’d been around too many demons and not enough  _ angels _ .” 

The witch was so entertained by the scowling demon and her own wit that she didn’t hear the front door open. She did, however, hear the angel’s voice come from somewhere above. “Anathema?”

“Oh shit!” She leapt to her feet and immediately went to rolling the rug back over the circle on the cellar floor. That had been much faster than she was expecting.

“Anathema, where’d you go?” She must have left the cellar door open because a round face topped in mussed blond curls popped itself around the corner of the stairs just as she managed to get the rug back in place. “Dear, what are you doing in the cellar?”

“Uh…” In that moment, her mind went blank. She was usually so good at quick thinking, but something about the total innocence and confusion on her friend’s face had her completely stumped.

“Wine,” came a hiss from one of the dark corners. “Tell him you’re looking for wine.” Crowley was  _ not _ about to let his cover be blown. Not before he got a satisfying reaction out of the man.

“I was just looking for a nice bottle for us to have with lunch.”

“Oh, what a fantastic idea! I have a lovely Chardonnay somewhere down there that would go splendidly with the chicken.” He gestured back up the stairs to where he had presumably set down their lunch.

“Sounds great. I’ll go ahead and grab that.” Aziraphale flashed her another smile before heading back up the narrow stairs.

The rest of the day was very pleasant. The lunch Aziraphale had picked out for them, (chicken piccata with steamed asparagus and brown rice, he told her), was delightful and indeed did go very well with the wine, which Aziraphale had obtained as Anathema kept grabbing the wrong Chardonnay. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking about easy things: Anathema’s recent trip to the states to see her family, Newt’s recent attempts at computer engineering, the other people in Tadfield, Christamas plans, (Oh, we should come here for Christmas! We’ll have much more room than in our tiny little flat and I heard this town gets a white Christmas every year!) but Anathema only had half a mind in the conversation for the majority of the day. It was very hard to ignore Crowley now. She couldn’t see him as well as she had down in the cellar, but his aura had a more definite shape and she could pick up on the more subtle hints and changes in its color. Every now and then, she would find her thoughts drifting back to their conversation downstairs and had to quickly explain away her goofy grin.

By the time she left in early evening, her thoughts were still hovering around the cellar floor. The thing about summoning circles, good ones anyway, was that they weren’t only one thing, but rather a combination of many smaller spells that worked together to accomplish what they needed to. It had been one sigil in particular, the one that had been behind her, that caught her interest. A sigil responsible for bonding a demon to a location. A sigil that was painted carefully in green spray paint. A sigil that had been partially rubbed away. A sigil that was no longer capable of bonding anything at all.

Anathema knew that she wasn’t the one who broke the seal. She had been very careful while moving things not to disturb the floor, not to drag the carpet or roughly push around any of the boxes. Which meant that the seal had to of been broken for a fair amount of time. Anathema wondered idly how long it would take Crowley to notice. Or if he would even care.

As she climbed into Dick Turpin, (Newt wouldn’t have been able to keep her from taking him even if he wanted to, the flurry she had been in that morning), Anathema pushed those thoughts out of her mind. She could think about all that later. Maybe on Christmas.

But right now, she had some kids to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly love the dynamic between these two in every single thing that I've ever read and I had a blast writing it. I do really love hearing from you guys so feel free to tell me what you think. All feedback is good feedback! I'm all out of pre-written chapters but hopefully the next one will be out soon anyway. Time to write some children!


	8. Four Bikes, Five Tea Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema and Aziraphale get to talk to some kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you guys so much for the love you've shown this fic. I've never written anything even close to this long before so your support really means everything. We're pretty close to the end now, just a few more chapters to go, so stick with me. Enjoy the return of the Them!

It occurred to Anathema as she drove the small blue car through the village that the chances of finding four children roaming about, especially at this hour, were extremely slim. It wasn’t yet five in the evening but already the winter sky was darkening, turning a dazzling violet. Still, she couldn’t leave without at least trying.

Her perseverance paid off almost immediately. She had only made it to the end of the street when she nearly collided with four bicyclists speeding down the trail that led into the nearby woods. Instead of rolling down the window or perhaps pulling over and parking, Anathema stopped right there in the middle of the road and got out of the car. Only then did it occur to her that she didn’t know how to start this conversation. 

They were an odd sight, Anathema in her long skirt and round spectacles standing beside the beaten up, sickly blue Dick Turpin, and the Them, each seated on a bike, each in various states of wear, lead by Adam. Or, really, lead by Dog, who was sitting contentedly in the basket of Adam’s bike. They all stared at each other for a moment, Anathema caught unawares by her own unpreparedness, and the Them unsure of why they were being stared at by a woman they had nearly run over.

“Are you a witch?”

Anathema blinked, looking at Adam. “How did you know?”

“Well you look like a witch, don’t you? I’ve read about witches and they look just like you.”

“How can you know what they look like if you only read about them, Adam?”

Pepper swatted the boy beside her. “It’s called imagination, Brian.”

“Actually, in that case, the cause would more likely be good imagery from the writer.” Wensley straightened his glasses. “Although having a good imagination certainly helps.”

Anathema goggled at the children in front of her. If there had been any doubt in her mind that she had found the correct children, it was now crushed. It didn’t take any imagination at all to see these four deciding to steal a book from some nuns and to do one of the rituals in it, just out of pure curiosity. She had a feeling it wasn’t even the most outrageous thing they had done. Their auras alone were fascinating.

“Did you just come from that cottage at the end of the road? The one that pansy just moved into over the summer?” Pepper gave Brian another, much strong smack. “Ow!”

“You can’t just go around calling people pansies! That’s so rude! Besides, you don’t know if he’s gay or not.”

“Oh, he his,” Anathema confirmed, knowing Aziraphale wouldn’t mind. He was long past caring what others thought of his sexuality. “And I did. Come from there, that is. Aziraphale is a friend of mine and I wanted to check in on him. Thing is, I found something really…  _ weird _ in there.” Ever adolescent spine in the vicinity visibly straightened. “You four wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Pepper, Brian, and Wensley all looked to their leader whose poker face would have put any Vegas regular to shame. “Why would we know anything about that house? What’s in there?”

Anathema smiled. She liked this kid. “A demon. And he says that he was summoned by four eleven-year-olds with a book.” 

There was a tight silence, then a soft “Wicked.”

“Is it Dionysus?” Wensley asked incredulously.

Pepper huffed. “Course s’not, Wensley. He’s a god. She said it’s a demon. We talked about this already.”

All three froze at the sight of Adam’s glare. Once his friends had been silenced, he turned back to the smirking woman standing in front of them. “Why do you want to know?”

“You’re not in trouble or anything. I was just wondering if I could take a look at the book.”

Adam gave her a long, searching look, before nodding and saying, “Yeah, alright. But you’ll have to come back to my place. Don’t have it with me.”

The four had all agreed that Adam should be the one to guard the book, for a couple of reasons. The first was that stealing the book had been his idea in the first place, and therefore he should be the one to look after it. He was also the only one whose room was messy enough for the book to be well hidden but not so messy that it would never be found again. And, on the off chance that the odd book  _ was _ discovered, Adam was the only one cunning enough to come up with a good excuse for having it.

The Them all agreed to ride off to their perspective homes as it was getting rather late, and Anathema followed Adam back to his, puttering behind him, thankful that no one else was currently on the road to be infuriated by her slow speeds. 

They arrived at the cottage just as the first stars were beginning to blink into existence. Anathema parked across the street, then followed Adam and Dog into the house.

“Mum, Dad, I’m home!”

“Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we- oh. Who’s this, Adam?” Adam’s mother popped her head out from the kitchen, then straightened when she saw that her son was accompanied.

“Oh, this is…” 

“Anathema Device.” Anathema stepped forward, offering her hand. 

“Deirdre Young,” Mrs. Young answered, taking the girl’s hand with a smile and shaking it. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before.”

“She’s friends with that guy who moved in over the summer. I just brought her over because I wanted to show her something.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Young, nodding and smiling in the way parents do when they know their children are being a bit of a nuisance. “Well it was very nice of Ms. Device to come over. Why don’t you go ahead and show her so she can head home and we can have dinner?” Adam nodded and rushed off towards his room. His mother lowered her voice. “Thank you for humoring him. He just gets so excited about the oddest things and wants to share with everyone.”

“Oh, no, not at all. It’s my pleasure, really.”

A head of brown curls popped out from a door down the hallway. “Are you coming, witch?”

“Adam!” 

But Anathema just laughed. “It’s alright, Mrs. Young. Just an inside joke. Coming, Adam!” And she went to join the boy in his small room which still managed to contain an astonishing amount of stuff. On the other side of the room, Adam was pushing aside a pile of dirty clothes from in front of his bookshelf. There, on the bottom shelf, shoved between a book about whales and, oddly enough, some obscure edition of the Bible, was a leather bound Book, labeled so in black print along the spine. Adam carefully pulled it from the shelf and gave it to Anathema.

“If anyone asks, you didn’t get it from me.”

“No, no, of course not… Thank you for this, Adam. I’ll take good care of it.” Anathema carefully tucked the old book into an inside pocket in her coat, and with that, she was back in the car and on her way home. She had a lot of reading to do.

… 

It’s needless to say that the Them were extremely intrigued by this new development in the Book case. They regrettably had school the next day, (Adam and Brian were all for skipping but Pepper and Wensley wouldn’t hear of it and there was no point in just two of them going), so it wasn’t until mid-afternoon that they knocked on Aziraphale’s door.

“Oh, hello there. Did you need help with something?” Aziraphale was both pleased and confused to find the four children standing at his door. He had been wanting to chat with them almost since he first moved here, but had no clue what would have brought them to him.

“Hello! We’re the Them and we all live around here.” The three in the back all nodded to confirm Adam’s words. “We were just saying that it was awfully rude of us, not introducing ourselves after you moved in. So we decided to pop over and say welcome to Tadfield.” Adam’s words were confident and humble at the same time, and Aziraphale was charmed.

“How very sweet of you. Please, come in. I’ll put the kettle on.” And so the four shuffled across the doorstep into the warm little cottage. Crowley, who had been lounging comfortably on the sofa, suddenly sat bolt upright, startling Anthony out of his slumber.  _ Them. _ What were  _ they _ doing here?

The Them took in their surroundings as they followed their host towards the kitchen. They didn’t actually know what they were looking for, just that there was something in here worth finding. However, the only sign that any of them found anything more than they had that first night was Adam’s slightly furrowed brow. He couldn’t quite figure out why the sofa felt hostile, like the furniture was glaring at him. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was extremely hospitable. He pulled down four tea cups and placed them on the counter, asking what tea everyone liked and getting the corresponding leaves down from the cupboard. He asked their names and they gave them, and he inquired about their day, seeming to be genuinely interested in what they had to say. None of the other adults in town every listened to them for long, yet here was a man who not only listened, but drank in every word. He had been very interested in Wensley’s accounting project, delighted by Brian’s observations of the surrounding countryside and its wildlife, and positively tickled by Pepper’s view on the patriarchal prison that was school and the reasons as to why she still attended.

“We ran into your friend yesterday. The witch.”

“Oh, Anathema! Yes, isn’t she lovely?”

“When she says she’s a witch,” Adam continued, doing his best to sound innocently curious, “what does she mean, really?”

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and pondered how to word his answer. “Hm. Well, from what I’ve gathered over the years, it mostly means that she’s rather sensitive to a lot of things. Auras, spirits, ley lines, things like that. She occasionally does a spell here and there, but for the most part, she just uses the information she’s given to make deductions or assist in certain situations.” 

Crowley, who had moved to sit by the window so he could better listen in on the conversation, gave a small snort. “Sure, that and sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

“And she’s rather good at it too,” Aziraphle continued with a small smile. “Helped me out more than once back in the day.”

“Sir-”

“Please, Wensleydale. Call me Aziraphale.”

Wensley nodded and pushed his glasses firmly onto his nose. “Right, Aziraphale, where did you get all these books?”

Aziraphale’s smile momentarily turned sad, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. Behind him, Crowley found himself overly irritated at the child for asking needless questions of his angel. “They were given to me by a friend.”

Brian, who had already spilled a considerable amount of tea down his front, put his cup down roughly, causing the Earl Grey to slosh over the side and onto the table and his hand. Without blinking, Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped up the spill as Brian temporarily gaped. “ _ All _ of them? Did he keep any for himself?” At this, Crowley actually stood up, strode towards the table, and smacked the young boy on the back of the head. Brian gave a small jerk forward, then looked around curiously, rubbing his now tea covered hand through his hair. 

Aziraphale was smiling sadly again. “He hasn’t got any use for them anymore, I’m afraid. Passed on not even a year ago. He left everything to me.”

“That was very nice of him,” said Brian softly, clearly feeling a little abashed at having brought up this topic. Pepper, however, looked a little sour.

“He left,  _ everything _ to you? Couldn’t he have donated any of it? Some of these books look really expensive. He must have had a lot of cool stuff.”

Crowley stared at her. What was  _ wrong _ with these children? Pestering his angel like this. That was supposed to be his job. And they weren’t even doing it well. They were just making him sad. 

The demon was gearing up to land another smack on a different head when he heard Aziraphale’s soft tinkering chuckle. “I quite agree with you, dear girl, which is why I donated many of the things I inherited from my friend. But I couldn’t get myself to part with any of this collection. It didn’t seem right somehow.”

“Where did he get them, then? If you got them from him.” Crowley looked over at Adam.  _ Finally _ a good question. Crowley himself had been wondering this as well. He placed a hand on the unruly curls and gave them a good rub. The boy raised a hand to pat his head. Had there been a small breeze from somewhere? How odd.

Aziraphale, quite too caught up in answering the boy’s question, didn’t see the boy’s hair rustle. “Oh, he got them from all over. In fact, many of these we collected together. Although not all of them, of course. We both had our own books before we met. The Chronicles of Narnia I’ve had since I was-”

“Wait.” Adam heald up the hand not clutching his cup of tea. “What do you mean you collected them together? Did you go around to a load of bookstores together or something?”

Aziraphale let out that chuckle again and Crowley decided that he quite like this Adam kid, even if it was his fault that the demon was stuck in a country cottage. “Yes, occasionally we would go to bookstores. Although sometimes it was easier finding a small underground collection, long forgotten by its owners, than it was to wrestle a book from the hands of a bookstore owner. Those people can be so stubborn. I mean really, why have a bookstore if you won’t sell the books.” Aziraphale grazed over the fact that he had been very tempted to do just that himself for a number of years. 

On the other side of the table, four mouths were hanging open. Then the Them all started speaking at once.

“ _ You found lost treasure _ ?”

“Wow! The historical value of this collection alone-”

“I wonder how many minority voices-”

“Did you ever fight any Nazis?”

Aziraphale lifted his hands, attempting to stem the flow of questions. “Woah, woah. As much as I would love to stay here all night and answer your questions about my past, it is getting rather late. I wouldn’t want your parents to come looking for you.” The man stood and began collecting tea cups. “You are welcome to come again, of course, but for now it’s best to head home.” After putting the cups in the sink, Aziraphale walked the children to the door and waved as they made their way down the street, back towards town.

Once they were out of earshot of the cottage, Pepper turned to the boys. “So, what d’you think?”

“He’s an interesting bloke. Way cooler than I thought he’d be.”

“Not that, you idiot. I meant about there being something in the house.”

“Yeah, Brian, stick to the mission,” Wensley stuck in, glad that Brian had spoken before him as he was about to say much of the same thing.

“Oh, right… I think something hit me in the back of the head at one point. You mean something like that?”

Pepper looked skeptical, but Adam nodded. “Yeah, I felt something touch my head to, now I think ‘bout it. But it didn’t hit me.” Everyone looked at Adam, eyes wide. Everything Brian said could be taken with a grain of salt, but if Adam felt it too… 

“And you’re right, Brian. He was interesting. I’m thinking we’ll have to go back sometime. I wanna know if he fought any Nazis.”

“And to see if we can find the demon, right?” 

“Well obviously, Wensley. Remember the mission.”

Back at the cottage, said demon was lounging on his spot on the sofa, lengthy limbs spread out fully while he dozed. Aziraphale, buried in his novel, absentmindedly stroked the warm thing resting in his lap, completely unaware that Anthony was curled up in the bedroom, fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, nothing brings me joy like comments and kudos bring me joy.


	9. The Thin Line Between Demon and Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley explains some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I know I am a total liar and a terrible person and I'm sorry, but to hopefully make up for it, this chapter is extra long. It's a lot of dialogue but hopefully it's still good. And again, I'm just a dumb American trying to sound English, so I apologize for any bastardization of the English accent. Enjoy!

As it turned out, Gabriel’s most unwelcome visit had been a bit of a blessing in disguise. Aziraphale soon found himself being joined in his cottage almost everyday by Anathema or the Them or, occasionally, both. They never stayed for too long, knowing that the man enjoyed his time alone with his books and his cat, but suddenly it wasn’t uncommon for Aziraphale to enjoy his tea with a witch and four eleven-year-olds. 

Crowley didn’t know how to feel about this development. He had come to quite enjoy his and his angel’s quiet days together, not that Aziraphale really knew he was there. They had fallen into a kind of rhythm, both being comfortable in whatever warm presence had filled the house, sitting in their own bubble of sorts. If he felt like it, Crowley could rustle something, make a weird noise or shift the light, just to see how his angel would react. It was fun in a peaceful way that a demon never should have been able to experience.

But Crowley couldn’t ignore how much happier Aziraphale was now. At first it was little signs. He stopped spending so much time organizing things that didn’t need organizing. He finished more of his tea in the mornings and cocoa at night, (he still didn’t drink all of it, mind you, but there was a significant drop in wasted beverage). Every now and then, the old record player that had been buried in one of the corners got some use, quietly playing Mozart or Bach or Tchaikovsky. The house had never felt sad, per se. At least, not to Aziraphale. After all, that’s why he had moved in in the first place, because he felt a peaceful contentment within its walls. But now there was an energy in the house that hadn’t been there before, and it put a bounce in Aziraphale’s step that had been absent for almost a year. 

After about a week of this new Aziraphale with his new energy, Crowley realized with horror that he was actually, just a little bit, jealous. Here he was, living in the same house as his angel for half a year, poking and prodding and doing his utmost to get some kind of reaction out of the man, and these people had managed to pull him out of his funk in a matter of days. How was that fair?

Crowley would have been more upset if he weren’t forced to admit to himself that he rather liked these new people too. As meddlesome as the witch was, she was also whip smart, funny, and incredibly thoughtful and caring. Every now and then she would throw a look Crowley’s way when she knew Aziraphale wasn’t looking, just a roll of the eyes or a knowing smirk at something the angel, or sometimes the demon, had said. His presence still wasn’t as strong to Anathema as it had been that first day down in the cellar, but she could catch little throw away comments, like something being whispered to her from the other side of a string phone. (You know, the ones that are just strings with cans taped to either end. They’re not the most efficient form of communication but they sure are entertaining.)

And as for the Them, Crowley’s first impressions were replaced by a strange proud fondness for the mischievous kids. They all had a certain wisdom that came with the simplicity of being eleven, and they were incredibly good at asking questions, especially Adam, who seemed to be the agreed leader of the bunch. Through Them, Crowley finally started learning things about his angel that had been nagging at him for weeks, and even more things that he never would have thought to ask about. 

“Mr. Aziraphale, do you believe in ghosts and stuff?” Brian’s friends all gave him warning looks. Anathema had talked to them some more about who was in the house, and it had been agreed that none of them could tell Aziraphale about it, that he either had to figure it out on his own or forever be none the wiser. Still, Brian thought his question was innocent enough. Aziraphale, for his part, wasn’t fazed by the question in the slightest, considering some of the other questions the children had asked him, and took a moment to form an answer.

“I think I must, having worked with Anathema for as long as I have, but I can’t claim to understand how any of it works. The supernatural and the afterlife and such.” He took a sip of tea, pondering for another moment. “I feel like the rules are really rather complex, and there are often more pressing things to spend one’s time pondering over. I honestly can’t think of the last time my life was directly affected by any kind of supernatural being.”

All around the table, the Them shared knowing glances, all calling to mind the little information Anathema had shared with them about the other thing living in this house. If they were to listen very, very carefully, they would hear the sound of Crowley banging his head repeatedly against the kitchen wall behind them.

  
  


It was only two weeks before Christmas when Anathema finally came up with a plan to stay over at Aziraphale’s place: ask to. 

Instead of going over for tea as she usually did, Anathema called ahead and asked if perhaps Aziraphale would like to do dinner this time as Newt had a work thing and she didn’t feel like eating alone. This was a lie, of course. Newt had nothing of the sort. But the timid young man had learned a long time ago not to mess with his girlfriend’s plans. She always had a good reason for them.

So Anathema headed out in Dick Turpin, a small bag of sleeping draft tucked away in her pocket. She liked to call it a sleeping draft, but really it was just very intense sleepy time tea. She knew how late her friend could stay up and the witch didn’t feel like waiting until four in the morning to do what she needed to do. It shouldn’t be hard to convince the man to have a cup of tea after dinner.

Anathema arrived at the little cottage just as the sky had decided that it was night rather than evening, which was still before six this time of year. Dinner was lovely as it always was with Aziraphale. Anathema tried to ignore the suspicious presence behind her, instead focusing on her pleasant conversation with her friend.

Crowley may not have been able to read auras, but he could tell the witch was up to something. He watched her carefully during dinner, listening to their conversation while absentmindedly shooing Anthony out of the kitchen. (He had been banned from being in there when guests were over after he had walked through the clotted cream, something that greatly frustrated the cat as he had only done it because the demon had dared him to.) His suspicions only grew when the witch starting making a show of how tired she was and how late it had gotten. Aziraphale, of course, offered his bed to his friend.

“No, Aziraphale. That’s ridiculous. Your couch will do just fine, I’m still young after all.”

The man didn’t look convinced. “It really is fine, dear. I fall asleep on that sofa half the time anyway.”

“Which only means you need your rest more than I do. I’ve already imposed enough, I’m not taking your bed too.”

“It’s no imposition, I love having you here.” The witch gave the man a pointed look, and a bit of the apprehension in his face softened. “But if you’re sure that’s alright.”

“I am. Now that that’s all settled,” she pulled the small bag from her inside pocket to show her friend. She could almost feel the demon narrowing his eyes, “why don’t we have some tea.”

“Oh, dear. You know I have plenty, why did you bring your own?” The question was merely curious. He had quite an extensive collection after all.

“Found this at one of the little markets near me. Supposed to be real fancy schmancy. Figured I would bring some to share, as a thank you for having me and everything. Besides,” she gave her friend a charming smile, “I want to know if it lives up to its hype, and you’re the tea connoisseur here.”

So Aziraphale made them tea, and they settled back down at their spots, now cleared of dishes, and continued to chat about nothing. It was pleasant and comforting and Aziraphale was so much enjoying himself and the new tea that he failed to notice that Anathema’s cup was just as full as when he had poured it for her.

Crowley hadn’t failed to notice.

Aziraphale finished his tea, (seeing as it was a gift, he didn’t want to waste any of it), and suddenly very much wanted to go to bed. He placed his empty cup in the sink and excused himself to his room, uttering a soft, “Good night, dear,” before disappearing behind his door.

Anathema got up and placed her full and now lukewarm cup of tea on the counter. She would warm it up and drink it later, but she wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. Keeping as quiet as she could, she cleaned and dried the cup he had put in the sink and returned it to its spot in the cupboard. Then, tiptoeing across the wooden floor in her thick woolen socks, she carefully pressed her ear to her friend’s bedroom door. From the other side came the sound of soft, slow breathing. Perfect.

Back down in the cellar, Anathema tried to remember where the center of the circle had been. She didn’t really feel like rolling up the rug again. It had to be right about…

“Did you just fucking  _ drug _ Aziraphale?”

Anathema looked up to see the demon standing on the stairs, in the exact same spot he had stood last time, arms crossed over his chest indignantly. With a small smile, she plopped down where she was. Must have found the right spot. “I didn’t  _ drug _ him, I gave him a sleeping draft.”

“That’s drugging, witchy girl. You drugged him.” From the demon’s ankles, Anthony gave a soft yowl as if to agree.

Anathema rolled her eyes. “I didn’t drug him, I persuaded him to actually go to sleep at a reasonable time. I gave him  _ tea _ , for crying out loud. Just strong sleepy time tea.” Crowley didn’t exactly look like he agreed, but he decided not to say anything else. “You’re awfully protective of him, you know that?”

He gave a small huff. “I am not  _ protective _ . I just don’t approve of underhanded methods and drugging is chapter one in the underhanded handbook.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a demon?”

“Yeah, a demon with  _ professional standards _ . Now why’d you drug ‘im?”

“I didn’t-” She sighed. God, he was insufferable. “Whatever. I wanted to check in on you.”

That shut him up. Beneath him, Anthony began to chuckle. The demon shot him a glare. Then he looked back up to the witch, taking a moment, (or five) to clear his throat. “What, making sure I’m not tormenting your boy?”

She smirked. “Hardly. I know you would never. Besides, haven’t you already proven that you couldn’t torment him even if you tried?” The demon responded with a poorly disguised pout. Anathema’s smirk softened into a smile. “I meant I wanted to see how you were doing. You’ve been kinda… weird the last couple times I came by. I figured you might be a little lonely, not being able to participate in any of the socializing, so I thought we could have another nice chat.”

Crowley sniffed. “Demons don’t get lonely.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is no-”

“Your best friend is a cat and you’ve practically imprinted yourself on Aziraphale. And don’t think I haven’t noticed your aura whenever the Them come around. I should have figured from the start that you were a softy for kids, considering how mad you got about them messing around with spells and stuff.”

Crowley had come down to stand at the very edge of his circle, pointing accusingly at the witch. “Stop putting words in my mouth,” he growled. “I’m not lonely, I don’t like kids, the cat and I are acquaintances at best,” (Anthony rolled his eyes), “and I am perfectly capable of frightening some sad old book hoarder!” 

Crowley stood there, breathing heavily, yellow eyes burning, staring at the frowning witch in the middle of the room. She shook her head and let out a sigh. “The sad part is, I’m starting to think you actually believe all that. But auras don’t lie, and yours is sending a message, loud and clear. I can deal with you lying to me. After all, it’s what you’re supposed to do. But I don’t really like the idea of you lying to yourself. It’s just a little pathetic. So,” she patted the rug in front of her, “let’s chat and figure out what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.” 

After another few moments of glaring, Anthony made his way down the rest of the stairs and passed Crowley to sit in front of the witch, facing the demon, summoning him with a wave of his tail. Crowley figured he wasn’t getting out of this, so he reluctantly took a few steps forward and sat down so he was eye to eye with Anathema. “I don’t like you.”

She smiled. “You do.”

There was more silence as Anathema waited for the demon to speak. She knew he would now. She just had to wait. 

Crowley looked away.

“Being a demon fucking blows, you know? There’s a reason Hell is a punishment. It’s- well, it’s Hell. Not a fan.” He fidgeted. He really wasn’t supposed to be talking about this, but she had him cornered. What was he supposed to do? “I don’t spend a lot of time there. Stationed on Earth, actually. The only demon who’s expected to stay up here, be a kind of inside reporter, I guess. And I’m not complaining. I like Earth, for the most part. Fewer demons, for one.” In the dark, Anathema could see his lip curl. “Demons are wankers. And I guess that makes sense, but they are just straight up wankers and I  _ hate _ it. They’re not even interesting wankers. They’re all boring and unoriginal, no imagination whatsoever. None of them appreciate my genius ideas, it’s all “tempt this priest” this and “corrupt this CEO” that. I mean, come on. That wasn’t even new in the fourteenth century.” Anathema watched as the air in front of her seemed to shimmer and realized that the demon had just shuddered. What a thing, that a demon can shudder. 

Crowley seemed to realize that he was getting off topic. “Anyway, like I said, I don’t have to interact with a whole lot of them, being on Earth and everything. I’m mostly around humans. The problem with that, though, is- well actually, there’s a couple of problems, the first being that relationships with humans is a big no-no downstairs. Which is  _ so _ stupid, but yeah. No fraternizing with the humans off company time. The thing is, I don’t actually  _ care _ what’s a big no-no downstairs. Their rules are stupid and they never actually check in. Which is evidenced by the fact that I’m still stuck in this  _ fucking _ cottage.”

It took all of Anathema’s self control to not roll her eyes at this. She did, however, allow the smallest of smirks. To be honest, the demon’s idiocy made him just that more endearing to the witch.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with humans throughout the years. But the thing is, with humans, in a way, they’re even worse than we are.”

Throughout this entire speech, Crowley had been looking anywhere but at Anathema, glancing down at his hands, searching the walls and surrounding boxes, squinting up at the moon through the small window, but now his yellow eyes met her hazel ones. “Demons are inherently evil. It’s why we are what we are. Humans are different. They get to  _ choose _ what they are, and that’s what’s supposed to make you all so great. The choice. Then it’s supposed to be up to us, to the angels and demons, to influence you one way or the other. Right? That’s how it’s supposed to be. But humans…” Crowley shook his head and looked away again, and the state of his aura nearly broke Anathema’s heart. “Humans don’t need us to be evil. You’re actually better at it on your own. Every major horror in history, every war, every serial killer, every genocide, everything, was your idea, all on your own. That’s why I do stupid things like glue coins to the pavement or knock out cell towers. Cause I know it doesn’t take much. I know humans are already teetering on the edge, that the smallest thing I do will send you over.” He smirked, but the look was more bitter than anything else. “Think smarter, not harder, right?”

Anathema looked at the man sitting across from her, and in that moment he really did look like a man: small and dark and broken, unsure of everything, including himself. Or maybe men had come to resemble demons. Anthony slinked over and crawled into his lap, licking at the wet cheeks. Crowley didn’t notice the wetness or the cat.

“How old are you?”

He looked back up at her. “Never ask a lady her age.” But Anathema didn’t break her gaze and Crowley accepted that there was nothing worth hiding from this girl. “About six thousand years.” Anathema wasn’t quite able to wrap her head around that number and Crowley’s smirk, although brief, was genuine this time. “See, that’s the thing. When you’ve been around that long, when you’ve watched the human race for that long and you’ve seen the greed and the hate and, and the  _ indifference _ , for six  _ thousand _ years… you forget that people like Aziraphale exist.”

Everything in Anathema softened. “What do you mean, people like Aziraphale?” She knew exactly what he meant, but she wanted to hear him explain it anyway. And something in her told her that he wanted to explain it too.

“I knew right from the start he wasn’t a real angel. Of course he wasn’t. If he was, he would have known I was there and I would have been in some bloody deep shit. But… it’s like he’s everything an angel is  _ supposed _ to be.”

Anathema’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean, how they’re supposed to be? What are they actually like?”

“They’re wankers, but worse,” Crowley answered with a snarl. “The thing about demons is, at least we know we’re evil. Angels like to pretend. They pretend that they’re all good and pure and helping the world, but they’re just pushing their own agenda. They don’t give a rat’s arse about humans, just that they end up with more of them than we do.”

A few feet away, Anathema was trying desperately to keep up. Her whole world view was getting rocked. Of course she knew demons, or demonic creatures, existed, but this was all a bit more than she’d been ready to accept. There was a lot to unpack, but for now, she just tried to listen. God knows, (or do they? She was going to have to be a bit more careful with that phrase now), that no one ever seemed to have listened to the demon before. No wonder the guy was lonely. Forget a friend, he needed a psychologist.

“So, yeah, angels suck, I’d argue even more than we suck. But the deal is kinda the same on their end. It’s their job to turn humans “towards the light” or whatever, but humans are capable of most of it on their own. Good just isn’t as advantageous as evil is, so not as many fall that way. But for all the evil that humans are responsible for in the world… I don’t know, I feel like Aziraphale is responsible for just as much good.” The edges of his aura tinged pink.

Anathema smiled. “You’re blushing.”

“I am  _ not _ .”

“Oh you so are. It’s cute.”

“I am not _ cute _ , I’m a  _ demon _ .”

“Yeah, a cute blushing demon who  _ totally _ loves kids and humans and sad old book hoarders and-”

“Don’t push me, witch. I could make your life Hell.” Crowley brought himself to his full height, glowering down at the woman still seated on the floor, but the pink aura greatly diminished the intimidation factor.

“What you gonna do? Sick Anthony on me? I know you’re the one who made him walk through the clotted cream.”

“I didn’t _ make _ him do anything, he is his own cat and I-”

“Anathema?” The witch and the demon stiffened. Neither of them had heard the footsteps come down the stairs, nor seen the man wearing tartan pajama pants and a cotton tee as he stood in the cellar, thoroughly confused. Apparently, Anathema had severely underestimated her friend’s insomnia. “Who are you talking to? Is there someone down here?”

“Anthony,” she blurted, reacting to the question out of panic. “Um, I couldn’t sleep, so I was talking to Anthony.”

“In the cellar?”

“Uh, yeah. I like it down here. Has a good vibe to it. Don’t you think?” 

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale started crossing the cellar floor. Panicking, Crowley rushed back to a dark corner, out of the man’s way. He didn’t know what affect the summoning circle would have, but he didn’t really want his angel to see him. At least, not like this. He probably looked a mess. 

Aziraphale offered his hand to his friend and helped her up so they were now both standing at the center of Crowley’s circle. The man shook his head, sending blond curls bouncing. “Really, dear, I just don’t understand you sometimes.”

“That’s why you love me. Why don’t I head up to bed? Goodnight, Azirapahle!” And she was gone, taking the cellar stairs two at a time.

“Really, that child.” He sighed and went to follow her back to the kitchen, but found that he couldn’t take a step forward. Or rather, he could. He was capable, the same way he was capable of having only one scone at tea. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave this exact spot, and if his life depended on it, he couldn’t tell you why. He couldn’t tell you why he sat down on that very same spot, just as he had found Anathema. He couldn’t tell you why he pulled his legs into his chest and closed his eyes. He couldn’t tell you why he would rather be right here than anywhere else in the world.

Crowley watched his Angel, completely baffled by his actions. Could he sense the circle somehow? Was he trying to figure out what Anathema had actually been up to? Was he just that tired? These thoughts were interrupted by another observation: Crowley was trapped. Aziraphale was sitting in his circle, the most connected point to the demon in the whole house, possibly the whole world, and he was staring at the only exit. 

Unsure of what else to do, Crowley settled himself in his corner, figuring he could just wait until his angel left. However, after about twenty minutes, it became very clear that Aziraphale was not leaving the cellar for a while. His head had dropping and he was beginning to sway in place. Crowley watched him from his corner, still completely lost as to why Aziraphale was drifting off, sitting in the middle of a cement floor. He did notice, however, that now was probably his best chance of getting away. He stood up, ready to make a go for the stairs, when Aziraphale gave a particularly strong sway to the side and Crowley did something very stupid instead.

He sat down next to his angel.

Almost as if he had been waiting for exactly this, Aziraphale rested his head on the demon’s shoulder and let out a soft sigh. Crowley tried very hard to ignore the small smile that had accompanied it. He looked so completely at peace, sitting in a cold cellar and leaning on a demon.

This was fine.

He would just sit here, supporting his angel, keeping him from falling over in his sleep and injuring himself in his stupidity, until… well, until he found an opportunity to move.

  
  


The morning was clear and the sunlight that came in through the back window was perhaps a bit harsher than it needed to be. At least, that was Anathema’s opinion on the matter when she was woken up by a blinding ray of light. She should have slept the other way. Or drawn the curtains. Or destroyed the sun.

With a soft grown, she pulled the borrowed blanket up to cover her eyes. She had fallen asleep fairly early the night before after drinking her mostly cold but admittedly still tasty tea, but for some reason she still felt exhausted. Still keeping her face under the tartan blanket, she reached out a hand to grab her phone and check the time. It was almost nine, and there were two missed calls from Newt. He would want his car back.

After another, slightly more aggressive groan, Anathema sat up and went to thank her friend for letting her stay there and let him know that she was heading out. She went and knocked on his door but got no reply. That was odd. He was usually awake by now. Maybe the tea had finally gotten to him.

Carefully, so as not to startle anyone that may be in there, Anathema opened the bedroom door, knocking again just to be sure.

“Hello? Aziraphale? You up?” The room was still dark, but even in the dim morning light, Anathema could see that the bed was empty. Maybe he was already up after all.

But he wasn’t in the kitchen, and he wasn’t in the back garden. He wouldn’t have left her alone in the house before she woke up, and it wasn’t exactly a large cottage. Where had he gone off to?

Then a thought crossed her mind and she couldn’t help but smile. “No way…”

The stairs weren’t exactly quiet, but Anathema did her best, walking on the ends to avoid the worst of the squeaking. “Aziraphale?” she whispered. “Are you still down here?”

Whatever she may have expected, it wasn’t what she was met with when she turned the corner of the stairs. There was her friend, sitting exactly where she had been the night before, fast asleep, head resting on a dark shoulder. Anathema hadn’t been able to see Crowley in clear light before, but the morning sun shone through the tiny cellar window like a spotlight on the two, white gold curls mixed together with copper ones. They were beautiful.

Anathema let out a soft sigh at the sight, something that she immediately regretted as the demon began to stir. Oh, sure. He couldn’t hear her whispering down the stairs, but a tiny  _ sigh _ managed to wake him up?

It seemed to take the demon a moment to piece together what was going on, and another moment to notice the witch positively beaming on the stairs. 

And another moment to blush deeply enough to match his hair.

Seeing as he still had a sleeping angel on his shoulder, the demon couldn’t do more than glare and mouth  _ Shut up _ before carefully motioning for the girl to come all the way into the cellar. Anathema, quickly understanding what he needed, rushed over to the pair and knelt down in front of them. With all the gentleness of someone handling a precious piece of art, (which is exactly how Crowley saw the situation), the demon placed a hand on the soft cheek, fingers reaching back into golden curls, as he carefully maneuvered his shoulder out from under the sleeping figure. Anathema placed her hand on his, taking control of her friend and allowing Crowley to slither away, back to his dark corner. With all the movement, Aziraphale began to stir. He opened his eyes, only to squint them back closed against the sudden bright light.

“Oh, Anathema. Hello, dear.” Just as with the demon, it took him a moment to realize where he was. With a small gasp, he sat upright, eyes suddenly much more awake as he looked up at his friend. “Oh my, I must have fallen asleep. How silly of me. Looks like you could have taken the bed after all. I did tell you-”

“Aziraphale, it’s fine. I was just a little worried when I woke up and didn’t know where you were.”

“That’s sweet, dear, but I’m fine.” His smile was soft and reassuring, then he seemed to remember something and his eyes grew wide. “Anathema, what time is it?”

“About nine in the morning.”

“Oh no!” Aziraphale leapt to his feet with a grace that should not be possible that early in the morning. “I was going to make you breakfast!” Before Anathema could say anything, Aziraphale was racing up the stairs, saying something about chickens and toast. Anathema watched him go, then turned to look at the demon still moping in the shadows. She couldn’t resist giving her eyebrows a little wiggle and Crowley simply stuck out his tongue in response. Anathema laughed, then headed back upstairs to calm down her friend.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, hun, calm down.” The man was pulling ingredients out of the fridge, looking frazzled. “Don’t worry about making me breakfast, I’ll just grab something quick in town.”

He turned to look at her with his big blue eyes. “Are you sure, dear?”

“Absolutely. I need to get Newt his car back anyway.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Well, let me walk you out then.”

The witch let out a small laugh. “Sure.”

Aziraphale put the eggs and butter back in the fridge, then turned to follow Anathema to the sitting room where she grabbed her purse and her coat, leaning down to pull the phone charger out of the wall. “You know…” the angel began, unsure of why he was compelled to tell his friend this but unable to help himself, “I had a strange dream last night.”

Anathema spun around, eyebrows nearing her hairline. “Oh?”

“Yes. I don’t remember much of it, but there was a beautiful man with red hair and gold eyes, and he kept calling me angel.” Aziraphale chuckled, shaking his head. “I have no idea who he was. It was the strangest thing.”

Anathema couldn’t stop the stupid grin. “Maybe it was a premonition, or a prophecy. Either way, I think he’s probably important.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I really do.” Anathema headed for the door, things slung over her shoulder. “Oh, and could you tell Anthony that I really enjoyed our chat?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Sure, dear. Drive safe.”

“Will do. Thanks for dinner.” She shut the door, leaving Aziraphale standing in his sitting room, shaking his head but smiling. From behind him came a soft  _ meow _ . The man turned and picked up his cat. “Anathema says thank you for the chat. I hope you didn’t talk too much about me.”

From just out of sight, Crowley shook his head.  _ Oh, angel, you have no idea… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, only one more chapter. I promise this one won't take as long. I have a better idea of what's going to happen, seeing as it's the last chapter, and I'm really excited for you guys to read it, so that should be out within the week... Hopefully. As always, I love nothing more than hearing back from you guys :)


	10. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I KNOW I said this was gonna be the last chapter but once I broke the the 4K mark and wasn't even halfway done, I figured I should probably break it up. The *last* last chapter should be done by tomorrow morning, meaning I'm gonna stay up and torture myself until it's done. That aside, I loved writing this chapter. Christmas is my favorite holiday and it was amazing getting to think of how our little found family would enjoy it. Hope you like it!

Aziraphale found himself falling asleep in his cellar more times than he would care to admit. He always went to his room with the intention of sleeping in his admittedly very comfortable bed, but more often than not, after hours of tossing and turning, he would be drawn back downstairs and be snoozing softly in a matter of minutes. Sometimes, when he was in that half dream, half awake state, he felt like he was being supported by something, and very occasionally, he would feel a gentle hand push through his hair. Every morning, he woke up having dreamt of the red-haired man who called him angel.

The man felt very silly for this new habit of his. There was no explanation for his strange new behavior and he began to worry that perhaps he was losing his mind. Stress, he told himself. Or maybe even lingering grief. 

But he felt good, the best he had in a long time, and he simply didn’t know how to make sense of any of it. He did know, however, that if he kept falling asleep while sitting on a concrete floor, he would have to find a chiropractor, and he highly doubted there was one within a 50 km radius of Tadfield. 

Funnily enough, he never wondered why he always woke up sitting rather than lying down.

As puzzling as this all was, Aziraphale tried to push it out of his mind if only because Christmas was approaching and for the first time in his life, he was hosting. This meant that for the next couple of weeks, Anthony and Crowley spent most of their days relaxing and watching the angel run around the house, making and putting up decorations, picking a spot for the small tree, scouring the house for nearly an hour before finding a ladder so he could put lights on the outside of the house, (every bone in Crowley’s nonexistent body was telling him to hold the ladder, but his angel was outside and that was a no demon zone), carefully wrapping and rewrapping and rerewrapping everyone’s gifts, attaching a small Christmas bell to Anthony’s collar, (much to the cat’s chagrin and the demon’s entertainment), and making sure everything was spick and span for the big day. By the time the 24th rolled around, the house looked marvelous but the man had never looked more frazzled and simultaneously excited. He was checking to make sure he had enough food for the following day, not that he could have done anything about it if he needed more. There was no more room left in the fridge or the cabinets for anything bigger than a candy cane. Anathema and Newt would be arriving the next morning so he had cinnamon rolls and orange juice and various fruits for breakfast, then a smorgasbord of lunch foods for when the Them dropped in around one, and a full Christmas dinner tucked away for that night. He had spent numerous days researching how to go about making dinner and he finally felt like he had a handle on the situation.

Once satisfied that the kitchen was properly stocked, Aziraphale went into the sitting room and grabbed the four small stockings hanging above his fireplace. The idea had come to him only a few days before, and even though Aziraphale was sure the children would all get stockings from their own parents Christmas morning, he was so warmed by the thought that he went for it anyway.

Crowley had greatly enjoyed watching his angel spend an entire day very carefully stitching names onto the four stockings just two days before. Adam’s had a dog on it, as well as a pocket where he planned on putting a treat for Dog, Brian’s was covered in woodland creatures, Pepper’s was red and depicted a roaring fireplace, and Wensleydale’s was blue with a lovely geometric pattern. Aziraphale laid them out on the coffee table in front of him and began carefully stuffing the toes with chocolate, softly humming “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

Crowley hoped his angel would allow himself to go to sleep in a bed that night.

He hoped his angel would allow himself to sleep at all.

  


The next morning, Aziraphale woke up, gloriously, in his bed. He had stumbled in there a little past four and passed out, the effort of the last few days finally catching up with him. Crowley had watched him the night before, growing more and more anxious as the time ticked on, beginning to wish that Anathema had left some of her special tea laying around for desperate times. 

But the man did sleep, in his own bed no less, and stayed that way until past eight. A whole four hours of sleep. It’s a Christmas miracle.

Anathema had said they would be there before ten which meant he still had a little bit of time to do some last minute freaking out. And to stick the cinnamon rolls in the oven. And maybe pick a good champagne for mimosas.

By the time the doorbell rang at precisely 9:53, Aziraphale was flush-faced and pacing and Anthony and Crowley were making bets on how long it would take him to break something. Anthony figured a glass by noon, Crowley was expecting a smashed decoration around the arrival of the Them. They stopped bickering long enough to turn their attention towards the door.

“Happy Christmas!” Anathema pulled Aziraphale into a hug before the man had even gotten the door all the way open. Just a few paces behind was Newt, laden down with gifts and a large covered dish.

“Happy Christmas, dear. Do you need some help back there, Newt?”

The man looked up, eyes looking slightly wild behind his glasses. “Actually, yeah, if you could grab-” He did his best to indicate the dish and Aziraphale immediately stepped forward and took it from him. “Thanks, mate.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered, turning to put what smelled like some kind of lemon pastry on the kitchen table. “Really, Anathema, making the poor man carry everything by himself.”

“I tried to grab something but he wouldn’t let me.”

“I haven’t really helped with anything all week, I wanted to be helpful.”

Anathema gave her boyfriend an endearingly frustrated look. “Yeah, and a whole lot of help it would have been if you dropped and broke something. Besides,” she stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on the tall man’s cheek, “you were at work all week, so it’s not your fault. And I had fun doing this stuff anyway. So _ stop worrying _.” Newt gave her a nervous smile before crossing the sitting room to the tree and unburdening himself of the gifts. “And you,” she called back to Aziraphale who was again flittering about, oozing nervous energy as he looked for something to fix, “quit running around, you’re making me tired. Sit down and enjoy Christmas with us.”

Aziraphale stopped his pacing and turned to his friend, blushing lightly. “Right you are, dear. Let’s have breakfast, I think the cinnamon rolls are just about done.”

And they were. He carefully pulled the tray out of the oven and put them down on the trivet he had left on the table next to a bowl of icing he had made the day before. The icing that came with the rolls was just rubbish and Aziraphale was not about to have rubbish icing on his Christmas cinnamon rolls. He worried for a bit that he had made too much of it, but the sticky vanilla mess ended up on more fingers and noses than on any pastry, so the ratio turned out to be just about perfect.

Crowley and Anthony were both very much enjoying observing this scene, (especially Anthony as he got to lick any dropped icing from the floor), until Newt accidentally shattered a champagne flute half filled with mimosa and the two were lost in an argument over whether the cat had won the bet for a broken glass despite the fact that Aziraphale had not been the one to break it.

After some wiping and sweeping and a few flustered apologies and a good deal more giggling, the kitchen was moderately cleaned up. The adults returned to the sitting room with their drinks, (Newt’s in a coffee mug which he held tightly with both hands), to open presents. 

“My dear… this is lovely.” Aziraphale pulled a dark bottle from the glittery bag, scattering sparkles over his new tea set, (sleepy time tea included), and blue tartan bow tie. He looked at the label with near reverence, a 2012 Bond St. Eden Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. “This is not a cheap bottle. You didn’t need to do this.” But the man did not look as if he were willing to give it back.

Anathema waved her hand dismissively. “I went to go see a friend up in Sonoma when I was home. Mentioned I had a friend who liked wine. He said this was one of his favorites and managed to get me a pretty hefty discount since he’s a member there. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “the name made me giggle. You know, bringing a Bond back to England with me.” Her eyes glanced up, catching the aura sitting on the windowsill, and Crowley heard the unspoken second part of her statement: _ And bringing Eden back to the demon _. 

He already knew about this gift. Anathema had managed to ask him about it the week before, having become unsure of her choice. She couldn’t tell you anything about a wine other than its color and the demon was a wine connoisseur that spent a great deal of his time roaming about Aziraphale’s pre existing collection. Crowley had assured her that it indeed was a good wine, and in thanks, the woman had decided not to make any comments on the bottle’s name. But apparently she could only restrain herself for so long.

“Maybe we can crack it open tonight. It certainly is a special occasion.”

“No, no, the fancy wine would be wasted on us and you know it. Maybe you can share it with Cr-uh, cat. Maybe you can share it with Anthony.” 

“I don’t think my cat is any more likely to enjoy it than you two, dear. His taste tends to lean more towards fish.” Aziraphale said, giving her an odd look. Crowley resisted the urge to walk over and poke her in the back of the head.

Aziraphale put down the bottle and waited for Anathema to open the last gift. She had already received a little glass sculpture of a bike, which was both beautiful and an inside joke between the two friends. Newt, wrapped up in his new weighted blanket, leaned over as Anathema ripped the wrapping paper. There was a moment where the two stared at the black box in the witch’s hands, both slightly stunned. Then Anathema burst into laughter and Newt nervously tittered, blushing slightly.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Aziraphale, my precious baby boy-”

“I’m _ older _ than you, dear.”

“-do you know what this is?”

Aziraphale crossed his arms, pouting slightly. “Of course I do. It’s a card game. The nice man at the store said it was like Apples to Apples, but better.”

Anathema rolled backwards, still clutching the Cards Against Humanities box, tears beginning to form in her eyes as she continued to cackle at the gift.

“Really now, dear. If you don’t like it-”

“It’s not that, Aziraphale,” interrupted Newt, looking at the man with an apologetic smile. “She’s actually been meaning to buy it for a while. It’s just… well, we can’t play when the kids come around, let’s put it that way.”

Back on the windowsill, Crowley was shaking with his own barely controlled laughter. He had actually been the one to invent the game eight years ago, telling his overseers that it was the perfect way to give players an excuse to be bad people. Of course his angel hadn’t heard of it.

There were still plenty of gifts under the tree but they were all for the Them, so Aziraphale put on some tea and the three adults snacked and chatted while Christmas music played happily in the background. Time passed quickly, as it tends to do in pleasant company, and before they knew it, there was a series of light knocks on the front door. Aziraphale went to answer it and there, standing on the doorstep, were the Them, all beaming. Adam held two packages under his arm. “Happy Christmas, Aziraphale! Thanks for having us over!” An enthusiastic smattering of “Happy Christmas!”s followed Adam’s greeting and the man could hardly remember the last time his heart felt so warm.

“And Happy Christmas to you, too. Please! Come in. There’s food in the kitchen.” Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale headed straight for the back of the house, but Adam crossed the sitting room to add his two packages to the small pile under the tree before joining his friends, Dog trotting happily behind him. Aziraphale hadn’t expected any gifts from the children at all, and just the sight of the colorful bundles made the man’s eyes swim. 

“Aziraphale! There won’t be any lemon bars left if you don’t get back in here!”

The children didn’t last long before they wanted to open presents, and seeing as the adults were almost as excited to give them, everyone headed back into the sitting room. 

“Would you four like to open your stockings first?” Four small heads whipped around to look at Aziraphale who smiled and pointed at the fireplace. 

In a flash, stockings were grabbed by their corresponding child and were being dumped out onto the floor, accompanied by the gasps and exclamations of four excited voices. There wasn’t much. It had been a last minute thought, afterall, and the stockings weren’t large, but that didn’t seem to matter. In each stocking was chocolate, a candy cane, a 3D puzzle of some kind, and a set of dice, as well as a couple of other knick-knacks that had made Aziraphale smile when he was at the store. Although maybe giving Brian a sticky hand wasn’t the best idea. Oh well. He would grow tired of it eventually.

Once the floor was thoroughly covered in stocking stuffers and Dog was chewing contentedly on his Christmas bone, the children turned on the tree. They all insisted that Aziraphale and Anathema open their presents last and the adults easily agreed. First was Pepper, who received a book on Emily Dickinson from Aziraphale and a Swiss Army knife, (penny included, of course), from Anathema and Newt. For Brian, a gift card to their favorite local ice cream parlour and a plush squirrel, whom he appropriately named Squirrely. Wensleydale received a beautiful abicus, (don’t worry, dear boy, I’ll teach you how to use it), and a 500 piece puzzle of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Finally, Adam stood up and grabbed the long package that was sitting in the corner, slightly behind the tree. He had noticed it almost as soon as they had entered the cottage and wanted desperately to know what it was. The small tag read-

To: Adam

From: Aziraphale 

P.S. Do be gentle with me!

Interest piqued, Adam carefully laid the box down and began tearing off the paper. The long brown box didn’t have any illuminating labels on it, so the boy went to open it, only to be faced with what he felt was an unnecessary amount of tape. “Pepper, would you lend me your knife for a mo?”

The girl pouted but handed her new knife to her friend. He carefully sliced open the tape, closed the knife, handed it back to Pepper, then pulled open the box. Inside was a handle. “Aziraphale… you got me a sword?”

The man chuckled. “It’s not quite a sword, dear boy. It’s a foil. It’s not sharp so it shouldn’t be able to hurt you, but that doesn’t mean it’s a toy. I thought that if you would like, I could give you some lessons on how to use it.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Adam stood and pulled the foil from its cardboard sheath. It was a bit too long for him, the boy being eleven and all, but he still managed to hold it with an aura of grace. Around the room, his friends all made impressed sounds, oohing and aahing at the sight. “Thanks, Aziraphale. This is really cool.”

“It’s my pleasure. There should be a scabbard in there as well. Be sure to take care of it.”

The young boy bent back down and dug said scabbard out of the box, carefully sheathing his gift and placing it on the floor next to him. Wensleydale handed him the last present with his name on it.

Adam tore the paper of his second gift to reveal a black leatherbound book. No, two black leatherbound books. The top one had gold embossed letters stamped across the front, spelling the words “The Practicle Stude and Use of Witche Crafte” and underneath that was a much more familiar book with only one word pressed into its cover. Adam looked up at Anathema. “I’ve gotten all the use out of them that I ever will, and I figured you might like the chance to do the same.”

The young boy looked at her for another moment before giving a curt nod. “Thanks, Anathema. Seriously. Thanks a lot.”

She smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

Adam returned the smile, then glanced at the window. It was just for a moment, but Crowley had the disturbing sense that Adam had looked at him. It wasn’t the first time. Every now and then, during the last few weeks, Adam would seem to glance in the demon’s direction, or sometimes scrunch his eyebrows when Crowley said something. He hadn’t paid it much thought, but if Anathema was giving him witchy books… best to be precautious. Adam returned to his spot and put a hand on Dog, keeping him from getting any closer to the books.

“Ok, Anathema! Your turn!” Wensleydale grabbed the package with the word “Witch” carefully written on it from under the tree and crawled over to the sofa so he could hand it to Anathema. 

“We were going to write your name on it, but we didn’t know how to spell it,” said Pepper who had moved to lean against the sofa, next to the woman’s legs.

“That’s alright, it took Newt over a year to figure it out.”

“It did not!” said the man, looking very indignant.

“Hun, there are only three As in my name, not four. I was just being nice.” Newt blushed, then returned to the sanctuary of his blanket as his girlfriend turned her attention to her gift. “Alright, what could it be…” She tapped her chin, making a show of examining the package, poking it and feeling its weight. 

“Just open it!” Brian cried, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Alright, alright.” She pulled back the colorful paper and lifted up… a hat. A witch’s hat, in fact. It seemed to be made from muslin and cardstock and a lot of paint. However, despite the materials, it was very well made and fit on Anathema’s head perfectly. The words “BEST WITCH” were neatly printed across the brim in golden glitter glue. 

“We all helped make it,” said Adam, standing to evaluate the overall effect. After a few seconds, he nodded with approval and sat back down.

“Wensley did the words,” piped up Brian.

“I have the neatest handwriting.”

“Yeah. And the glitter glue,” added Pepper. “Sorry we didn’t get anything for you, Newt. We didn’t know you existed.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Newt said with an awkward smile, not really sure how to take that comment.

“Here,” Anathema took off the hat with a flourish and carefully placed it on Newt’s head where it slipped down and covered his eyes. He adjusted it and peeked out from under the brim. “We can share it.” 

Newt smiled down at his girlfriend as she leaned against his chest and turned toward her friend curled up in his armchair. “Aziraphale’s turn!” 

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale took the last gift from Wensleydale. It was soft and crinkly, like he was holding a ball of tissue. He carefully removed the tape from the shiny paper to reveal that he was, indeed, holding a large ball of tissue paper, although he could tell by the weight there was something inside. “What on Earth,” he muttered with a chuckle.

“We wanted to make sure it didn’t break,” said Brian who had moved to sit next to Aziraphale’s chair. Aziraphale gave the boy a curious look, then carefully began removing layers and layers of multi-colored tissue until he was looking at a nickle-rimmed monocle, complete with chain. Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. “What is this?”

“It’s a monocle,” Adam answered easily. “All smart bookish people need a monocle.”

Aziraphale looked down. There was still weight in the paper. With a bit more digging around, he found an identical eye piece and held it up. “Why two?” he asked, holding them up to his face. “One for each eye?”

Adam shook his head, brown curls bobbing. “Nah, that one’s for Terry. We wanted to give him something, even if he can’t be here.”

The room went very silent, making the soft Christmas music suddenly seem too loud. Aziraphale slowly lowered his hands and took in the four hopeful faces looking up at him from the floor. He turned his attention back to his hands. They were cheap things, really just magnifying glasses with a chain rather than a handle. Briefly, Aziraphale wondered where they had managed to find these. “He would have loved this,” he whispered, and he would have. Having a cheap little monocle given to him by some children to help complete his image is exactly the kind of thing that Terry Pratchett would have adored. Clearing his throat, the angel looked back at the Them and gave a watery smile. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.” He hadn’t realized he was crying until Brian stood to give him a hug, sitting on the squishy arm of the chair. Very suddenly, there were four children surrounding the armchair, all hugging Aziraphale in the way that only earnest kids can. The man gave another soft chuckle. “Happy Christmas, my dears.”

“Happy Christmas, Aziraphale,” they all chimed back.

Anathema was working very hard to hold it together, which was especially difficult since she could see both the touching scene next to here and the auras it was producing. So enraptured was she, in fact, that the witch didn’t notice the other aura in the room. 

Something in Crowley’s chest seemed to be melting. It was that same burning that he had first felt months before, but it was softer this time, like the flame had turned to lava, bright and slow. He felt like he was watching a holy event. It had the kind of purity that comes with a mother holding her child for the first time, or shows up in that look that soul mates have at the altar. Crowley was a demon. He was supposed to despise all things pure and holy.

But he couldn’t look away.

Aziraphale eventually managed to gently shake the children off of him, reminding them that there was still food in the kitchen. 

“And you all better eat it or I won’t know what to do with all the food by the end of the day.”

The Them ran into the kitchen, happy to oblige, as the adults stayed in the sitting room and cleaned up. They put Aziraphale’s, Anathema’s and Newt’s presents in Aziraphale’s room and the children’s all under their respective stocking. They were just picking up the last of the wrapping paper when there came a loud knock from the front door. They all stopped and looked, but nothing could be seen through the front windows. Anathema raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale who shrugged and went to answer the door.

“Aziraphale! Merry Christmas!” Aziraphale froze, mouth slightly ajar. Standing in front of him was none other than Fucking Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note about the penny thing. It's bad luck to give someone a knife as a present, so you're supposed to give them a penny with it and then they give the penny back so that you "paid" for the knife. Also, I'm from Sonoma and still know absolutely nothing about wine. I was just tickled by the idea of Anathema giving Aziraphale a wine called Eden. Anyway, next chapter we finally get to deal with Gabriel and the truth comes out and I'm so excited for you guys to read it. If it's not out by tomorrow, you can all publicly shame me cause this is getting a little ridiculous. Love you all, thanks for sticking with me!


	11. The Angel and the Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale meets the man from his dreams and discovers that he isn't a man at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHE'S DONE. I can't believe I actually did this. This is the first multi-chapter fic I ever finished and I cannot be happier with how it turned out. I'm so, so excited for you guys to finally see where everyone ends up, I hope you love reading it as much as I loved writing it. Enjoy!

“Who is it?” called Anathema from where she had continued to collect wrapping paper.

“Gabriel. What are you doing here? On Christmas no less?” Aziraphale felt Anathema’s hand on his arm. He didn’t need to look to imagine the expression on her face.

Gabriel looked at Anathema, clearly shocked that Aziraphale wasn’t alone. “Who are you?”

“I’m his best friend and we’re trying to enjoy Christmas. What do you want?”

Gabriel’s smile grew wider and his eyes grew colder. “I just heard that you had an incident a few weeks ago, Aziraphale, and I wanted to come check on you. Make sure you’re ok. I also wasn’t expecting you to have guests and thought you might like a bit of company.”

“Well, as you can see, he’s just fine and he has company, so why don’t you piss off.” Anathema’s voice came out low and threatening, like a snarl. She didn’t want to draw the children’s attention but she also didn’t want Gabriel to have any doubt that this man was protected.

“Anathema, dear, it’s alright.” Aziraphale grabbed her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “Why don’t you and Newt take the children on a walk? It’s such a nice day.”

“Are you sure?”

Aziraphale looked back at the hulking figure in the door. He knew Gabriel wouldn’t leave him alone until he said what he wanted to say and he didn’t want his friends getting in the middle of it. “Yes, dear, I’m sure. I’ll be just fine.” 

She squeezed his hand back, then turned to call into the house. “Newt, kids, get your coats, we’re going on a walk.” There was a general chorus of affirmation from the kitchen which Anathema took to mean they understood. Then she turned slightly towards the burgundy cloud shimmering just a few feet away. If she concentrated, she could just see the outline of a face which meant she was able to make eye contact with it. She flitted her eyes towards the bedroom and back to the face-shadow before stepping into the room. Crowely followed.

“Please watch out for him.” Anathema kept her voice level and low with a momentous effort. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but after what Gabriel did last time… just don’t let him do something stupid.” She grabbed her coat from the bed and turned to face the demon. In the low light, she could almost see his whole figure.

“I’ll keep him safe,” came his voice, the clearest it had been outside of the cellar. “I promise.” Anathema gave a curt nod and left the bedroom. 

Two men, a demon, and a cat watched the small procesion disappear down the street. Once they were out of sight, Aziraphale’s face cooled, becoming stony. “Did you want to come inside, Gabriel?” Aziraphale would like nothing less than having the man in his home but the sooner they got this over with, the better.

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to impose, Aziraphale.” Aziraphale chose not to point out that he had already imposed by showing up.

Behind him, the demon was looking at the taller man curiously. His angel may have missed it but there was a definite tone of fear under all the bravado. Crowley thought back to the last time he had been in this house and smiled. Good to know he made a lasting impression.

“Right, then. What did you want?” There was no pretense of politeness in the angel’s voice. Any desire to pretend was thrown out the door about a month ago along with his would-be robber.

“Well, other than checking on you, catching up, offering my holiday greetings… I’m asking one last time, Aziraphale. Reconsider. Your books can fetch a handsome price, or more. Some very important people are willing to offer just about anything to get a piece of your collection. Anything you want and it’s yours.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them and fixing Gabriel with an icy glare. “What I want is my books, and to be left alone. I don’t understand why that’s so difficult for you to grasp. I will not sell, trade, donate, or pawn any of my and Terry’s books, nor will I ever have the desire to do so.”

“But what’s the point, Aziraphale? What does one man need with an entire library? I mean, I know you’re lonely but surrounding yourself with stories, blocking yourself off from the outside world, it’s just sad. Sell the books and go travel the world. Meet people. Do something other than read and eat.”

The longer Gabriel talked, the colder Aziraphale’s expression grew. Back in the house, Crowley felt as if he had reached the boiling point. How  _ dare _ this man talk to his angel that way? He didn’t know anything about Aziraphale’s life.

“I have traveled, and I have met people, and I’ve done everything that I wanted to do. What I want now is to retire and have a peaceful life, and I will thank you to stop questioning that.”

Gabriel considered the man for another moment before switching tactics. “You know how much money is in this house, Aziraphale. It’s not safe to live alone and be sitting on this gold mine. You’ve already had one attempted-”

Aziraphale raised a hand to cut him off. “Please don’t insult my intelligence. I thought I told Sandalphon to give you the message, but I suppose he was too much of a coward.” Aziraphale looked up and met Gabriel’s violet eyes with his own blue ones, clear and cold as chips of ice. “I told him to tell you that the next time you sent one of your goonies to do the dirty work, I would run him through with my rapier and persecute you to the full extent of the law for conspiracy. I’ve worked in your world a long time, Gabriel. I know who you work with and I know how you operate. Don’t make me take advantage of that fact.”

For the first time since his arrival, the tall man’s smile wavered. No one had ever dared call him out on his business before. It was the same as signing a death warrant as far as most of them were concerned. Gabriel never expected rebellion from anyone anymore, let alone fat, gay, lonely little book collectors. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, Aziraphale. I only heard about the break in a couple of days ago.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sure. Did you need anything else?”

“Well, it is Christmas-”

“I am not giving you a book just because it’s Christmas. I only give gifts to people I like.”

“No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest anything of the sort.” Aziraphale resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “Actually, I just remembered that I have something for you.”

The blond man raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that so.”

“It is. But I left it in the car. Why don’t we go down and grab it, then I’ll be out of your hair. Let you live out your retirement in peace.”

_ No _ , thought Crowley.  _ No, don’t leave the house. I can’t protect you if you leave the house. Don’t go. _

But no one hears the thoughts of a demon, so Aziraphale stepped out into the cold and closed the door behind him, praying for the first time in years that this would really be over this time.

The two men walked over to Gabriel’s car, white and sleek and intimidating. Aziraphale followed the taller man out into the street to stand by the driver’s side door and waited as he bent down to grab something out of the car. He didn’t see Gabriel quickly type something into his phone.

Crowley knew what was going to happen. He had orchestrated plenty of dastardly plans in his day and even from this distance, he knew when one such plan was being unfolded in front of him. He could sense it in the taller man, in the tenseness of his shoulders, the smirk when Aziraphale wasn’t looking. He knew what was going to happen. And he knew that he couldn’t let it.

Crowley forgot that he was bound to the house. Crowley forgot that he was no longer corporeal. Crowley forgot that Aziraphale was a stranger who would want to know what the demon had been doing in his house. Crowley forgot he was even a demon.

Crowley remembered learning how to run hurdles in the 1840s on a bet.

In the amount of time it took a black sedan to appear at the end of the street and race past Aziraphale’s house, Crowley managed to wrench open the front door, sprint down the front garden, scale the entire hood of Gabriel’s stupid Ford and grab his angel’s arm just as it was pushed out into the street. 

Thinking back on it, Crowley honestly didn’t know if it was good timing or a slight demonic miracle that saved Aziraphale’s life. To be perfectly frank, he didn’t care. All he cared about was the fact that his angel was warm and breathing and Crowley could feel the man’s heart beat ferociously against his chest and his dandelion hair fluffy and soft under his chin and hot breath blow on his neck. He was alive and in one piece and Crowley could  _ feel _ him. 

Crowley snapped back to reality. His job wasn’t done yet. Loosening his grip on Aziraphale but not letting go, Crowley looked over at Gabriel who was white-faced and furious. There was no faking himself out of this one. Crowley flashed him his most devilish grin. “Hey there, Gabe. Remember me?” Crowley slid his shades down his nose so his yellow eyes flashed over the frames. 

In a split second, all the blood had left Gabriel’s face. “You-”

“Oh good, you do remember. Do I need to tell you what’ll happen if you ever show your great ugly face round here again?” The tall man swallowed, then gave a single shake of his head. “Great. Get lost.”

And get lost he did.

In front of him, Aziraphale was shaking ever so slightly. Crowley still had one arm wrapped around the man, but as the sound of Gabriel’s tires faded down the street, the blond seemed to come to his senses. He took a hurried couple of steps back and took a deep breath. “Terribly sorry about that, dear boy, having you swoop in and save me like that. How very-” His voice died in his throat. He had lifted his head to look at his savior but was stopped short at the sight of bright red curly hair.

“Very…” Crowley prompted.

Aziraphale felt himself blush. “Embarrassing. How very embarrassing. Um, A.Z. Fell. Or just Aziraphale. Pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.” He reached out a hand towards his savior who smiled.

“Crowley. Ah… Anthony Crowley. Pleasure.”

“Anthony? That’s my cat’s name.” 

Oh, didn’t he know it. The demon could feel the cat’s glare all the way from over here, but it was the first name that had popped into his head. “Right. Small world, I guess.”

“Indeed. You seemed to know Gabriel as well.”

“Oh, yeah. Past acquaintances, I guess you could say. Not really a fan of his practices.”

“No, no, neither am I, I’m afraid.” A thought seemed to pass over Aziraphale, causing his eyebrows to knit. “Maybe I’m losing my mind, dear boy, but where exactly did you come from?”

“Oh, that. Uh-”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley was saved from thinking of some clever misdirection by the sound of Anathema sprinting towards them. “I heard the breaks, are you-” She screeched to a halt and stared at her friend’s companion for a moment before breaking out into a bright and slightly mischievous smile. “Hello, Crowley. Long time no see.”

Even with his dark glasses, there was no question that the redhead was rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right. Been bloody forever.”

Aziraphale looked at his friend, then back at the beautiful man. “Anthony, you know Anathema too?”

“Wait,  _ Anthony _ ?” And she was laughing again. “ _ Really? _ ”

The demon blushed. “Oh, shut up.”

“Yes, dear, you’re being quite rude. Besides,” Crowley was nearly blinded by the angel’s smile as he turned to him, “I think it’s a lovely name.”

“You would,” he muttered, glaring back at the cat who had come to stand on the garden fence to watch all the commotion.

There was a small thundering of steps as Newt showed up with the children. “Anathema, there you are. Why’d you- Oh, hello.” 

“Who are you?” asked Pepper, taking in the new man suspiciously, getting ready to defend Aziraphale if need be. Beside her, Brian and Wensleydale were looking much the same, although being less intense about it, but Adam had a strange look on his face.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” His friends turned to look at him, eyes wide, then back at the strange man. “You’re the one we summoned.”

“OK! It’s time we got you back to your parents, huh? Can’t steal you for the entirety of Christmas.” There was a look and Newt nodded.

“Come on, you lot. Best not to question her when she’s like this. Let’s go get your stuff.” 

As they passed, Anathema mouthed a word of thanks to her boyfriend and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning back to the situation at hand. “Kids, huh?” Aziraphale just gave her a puzzled look while behind his back, Crowley gave her a mocking thumbs up, mouthing  _ Nice job _ . “Right. Crowley, did you want to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s-”

“Dear, I’m sure he has other-”

“Of course you do! Don’t worry, there’s lots of food and apparently very good wine.” She gave them both her most dazzling smile, then turned back towards the house. “Shall we?”

Both men knew a lost cause when they saw one. Besides, Aziraphale had been trying to think of a way to invite Crowley in, and Crowley didn’t really feel like going back to London. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Crowley stepped up onto the curb to follow the witch. “Come on, angel.” 

He made it all the way to the garden before he realized what he said. “Oh, fuck.”

“What did you just call me?” The redhead didn’t answer, and he didn’t turn around.

Anathema shook her head. “Nice going, idiot.”

“Anathema, dear, I love you, but shut up.” The witch looked at her friend for a second before nodding and taking a few steps back, hands raised in surrender. Aziraphale didn’t see the gesture. All his attention was fixated on the man in front of him. “You show up out of nowhere and save my life, you seem to know everyone around me, Adam says he and his friends  _ summoned _ you, and you’ve been in my dreams. Not just your image, but you. And you know me. You know me well enough to have a name for me.” The angel had been taking slow steps forward and now stood directly behind Crowley. “Who  _ are _ you?” Before Crowley could answer, Anthony leapt off the fence next to him and began rubbing against his black skinny jeans. Crowley leaned down to pick up his feline friend. Anthony didn’t know how to feel about this new development. The demon hadn’t been able to pick him up before. “Even my  _ cat _ knows who you are. Why am I the only one left in the dark here?”

“If it makes you feel any better, Newt’s in the dark on this one too.” Aziraphale turned to give Anathema a look. She took another step back. “Right. Sorry. Shutting up.”

When he returned his attention to the tall man in front of him, it was to find that they were now face to face. Anthony was purring in Crowley’s arms, rubbing his head on the underside of the demon’s chin. In some part of his brain, the demon was thankful that the cat was black so his fur wouldn’t show up on his dark ensemble.

“In my defense, I tried to be real clear about my presence but you kept blaming everything on the bloody cat.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I’m sorry,  _ what? _ ”

At that moment, the front door opened again and Adam came racing down the path, stopping next to Crowley. Anthony leapt down to say hello to Dog. “Hello Crowley, Mr. Demon, sir.”

“Just Crowley, kid.”

“Right. Sorry, I never learned how to properly greet a demon. I’m Adam, although I guess you already know that. Great to finally meet you.” Adam stuck out the hand not holding the box with his new foil in it, and Crowley, unable to resist the young man’s innocent charm, grabbed his hand and shook it.

“Adam, you were supposed to wait for us!” Pepper came rushing out of the house, followed by Brian and Wensleydale, gifts in hands and pockets full of stocking stuffers.

“You were taking too long.”

“No, we were eating,” shot back Brian, still chewing something sticky. “Aziraphale told us to. Hi, I’m Brian.” The boy waved and Crowley was inwardly thankful that he didn’t offer a handshake, seeing as whatever he was eating had also gotten all over his hands.

“And I’m Wensleydale. Very pleased to meet you. Fascinating, really-”

“Wensley, don’t be creepy. I’m Pepper, but Adam says you already know our names. Are there any girl demons?”

A little overwhelmed, Crowley could only think to answer the question. “Uh, well, technically none of us have a gender. We just kind of… exist.”

Pepper nodded with approval. “Good. Gender is a construct anyway.”

“Damn straight, kid.”

And with that, the Them turned down the street to make their way home. Aziraphale had watched this interaction with wide eyes, mouth slightly open, completely stunned for perhaps the first time ever. Neither Crowley nor Anathema moved, both frightened of breaking the tension and, therefore, breaking Aziraphale.

The front door opened for the third time. “Are you guys coming inside? You’ll catch your death out there.” The demon and the witch turned on Newt, eyes wide. “What?”

“Would someone like to tell me what the bloody hell is going on here?!” 

  
  


It took a long time to explain everything to Aziraphale. They managed to get everyone in the house and settled into the sitting room so that Aziraphale, who wasn’t wearing a coat, wouldn’t freeze to death. Crowley started his story from the beginning, explaining how he had gotten there, how he had gotten more and more frustrated that Aziraphale couldn’t tell. Anathema chimed in where she could, occasionally rewording things in a way she knew her friend would better understand. Newt swept back and forth between the sitting room and the kitchen, bringing tea and snacks and checking on dinner since Aziraphale was a little distracted for cooking. After what felt like hours of storytelling and explanations and sidetracks and questions, Aziraphale finally seemed to be sated. 

“It actually makes quite a bit of sense, now that I think about it,” he said softly from his armchair. “All this time, I couldn’t figure out why I liked this house so much. I mean, it’s a lovely cottage, but it is just a house. I shouldn’t be able to feel so safe and content, just by being here. But now I know it’s because you were always here.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley with those stupid blue eyes and the demon blushed. He didn’t even know he could do that, but his cheeks were definitely burning and Anathema was giggling behind her hand on the other side of the sofa. He glared at her from behind his sunglasses, which he had kept on so as not to scare his angel, and when he turned back, found that the blond man was also blushing. “I didn’t mean- it’s just that, um- oh, stop laughing, Anathema, it’s not that funny.”

“It is exactly that funny because I’m the one that’s had to watch over you two idiots for the last month. The only one who has more of a right to laugh than me is Anthony.”

“Don’t say that, he laughs at us enough already.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at the demon’s words but didn’t say anything. 

There was a loud  _ clang _ from the kitchen and a few moments later, Newt popped his head around the corner, cheeks flushed and smile triumphant. “Sorry to interrupt, everyone, but, well, dinner’s ready!”

The rest of the night was easy after that. They sat down to a wonderful dinner and Aziraphale thanked Newt profusely for taking over kitchen duties. Crowley didn’t eat, choosing to stick to his glass of wine. When Aziraphale made a face, Crowley offered the excuse that the blond man had only been expecting three mouths to feed, not four, and that it would be rude of him to partake. Besides, he wasn’t a big fan of food. Aziraphale accepted this explanation with a pout but continued to subtly push plates of food closer to the demon throughout the night.

It was Anathema’s idea to play Cards Against Humanity after dinner. At first, Aziraphale had refused, saying that it wasn’t very Christmasy. (He had taken a closer look at the box after Anathema had opened it and felt ridiculously foolish for not having done so before his purchase.) However, when Crowley suggested that the man didn’t want to play because he didn’t want to lose, Aziraphale snatched the box, pulled out cards, and began shuffling. About half an hour later, the group was baffled and slightly horrified to find that Aziraphale was far in the lead.

“How are you winning, angel? I literally  _ invented _ this game, you should not be beating me.”

“Really, dear. It’s almost as if you’ve all forgotten that I was an adventurer for most of my life.  _ And _ that I was in the military. Besides,” he added with a crooked smile that made Crowley thankful he was already sitting in a chair, “humour is just a variety of intelligence. So I clearly have a bit of an advantage.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow at her friend. “Are you suggesting that the rest of us are stupid?”

“Oh, heavens no, dear!” And he did look slightly appalled by the thought. “I would never suggest such a thing! You are all very intelligent. I am just more so.” He gave her a cheeky grin and she smacked his arm from across the table. On his other side, there was a softly murmured, “Bastard.”

By eleven, everyone was ready for a nightcap. Anathema and Newt still had an hour drive home so Anathema was finishing off a cup of black tea. Aziraphale had offered to let them stay, of course, but they waved him off. He had been a very gracious host but it was time to be heading home.

“Besides, there would be no room for Crowley,” she added.

The demon looked up at the sound of his name. He had been half hoping that he could stay the night but he hadn’t actually asked. It was weird, having to ask permission to stay in the place you had come to consider home. But still… 

“I don’t want to impose, angel.”

The blond looked at him. “Do you have somewhere else to go?”

“Well… no, not really.” This was only partially true. He had his flat in Mayfair but no real way of getting there.

“Then you’re not imposing. You were here first, afterall.”

Anathema smiled at them from over her cup. “Just, do me a favour? Don’t sleep in the cellar this time, ‘kay? The bed is comfier and still has room for two.” She sipped at the last of her tea as the two men blushed deeply. They hadn’t talked about that particular series of events. Neither of them knew how to acknowledge it and Anathema knew that. She was really enjoying poking fun at her idiot friends.

The couple rounded up their things and said their goodbyes, thanking Aziraphale for a lovely holiday and Crowley for existing. Anathema gave the demon a hug and let him pretend that he didn’t like it. And then they were gone and there was no one in the cottage but an angel, a demon, and a cat.

“I’m terribly sorry, dear, but I’m afraid I can only offer the sofa.”

“Don’t worry about it, angel. I don’t technically sleep.”

“Technically?”

“Well,” Crowley scratched the back of his head, trying to look indifferent, “I don’t  _ need _ sleep, I just like it. Slept for almost a century once. But I’ll be fine. On the sofa, that is.”

“Yes, good. Well, goodnight then. Happy Christmas.”

“Right. Happy Christmas.”

Aziraphale tried to sleep. Really, he did. It had been a long day, and he was tired, and his bed was comfortable, and he’d even made himself a cup of the tea Anathema got him that morning. Still, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t tear his mind away from the demon lying on the sofa just in the other room. He was quite used to having difficulty sleeping. He’d had insomnia since he was a child, it wasn’t anything new. Even so, usually the issue was that he  _ couldn’t sleep _ not that something was keeping him awake, not that there was a great big elephant in the other room. The last time he had been like this, he’d pulled his rapier out of storage, but he didn’t quite feel like that was an option right now.

Sometime around one in the morning, Aziraphale decided that at the very least, he could try brewing another cup of tea.

Crowley, unlike his angel, was not used to have trouble sleeping, and he found it really rather frustrating. Anthony would come around and check on him every now and then, but for the most part, the demon just stared at the ceiling, listening to the occasional rustling coming from the bedroom. 

The sound of the bedroom door opening almost sent him tumbling off the sofa. Aziraphale stepped out, meeting the demons eyes. “Oh, you’re still awake.” He gave a small smile. “I was worried that I would wake you up.”

“Couldn’t sleep. You?”

“No, no, me neither. I was thinking of making some tea, or…” The blond trailed off, absentmindedly wringing his hands.

Crowley smirked, sitting up on the sofa so he could look at his angel properly. “Weren’t thinking of sleeping in the cellar, were you?”

“Oh, no, no…” He cleared his throat. “Anathema was right, the bed is more comfortable…”

_ And has room for two. _

“Or what, then?”

“Pardon?”

“You said ‘make some tea, or…’ Or what?”

Aziraphale continued to fidget. “I was just thinking… it’s only that every other time I couldn’t sleep… but it wasn’t actually the cellar, obviously, it was… and I, well, um, maybe-”

“Aziraphale,” interrupted Crowley, all drawling voice and devilish charm. “Are you asking me to sleep with you?”

Aziraphale blushed all the way down to the collar of his cotton tee and it was just as beautiful as Crowley had suspected it would be. “Not like that, of course, although I suppose technically speaking-”

As Aziraphale continued to ramble, Crowley stood and sauntered over to the bedroom where the blond stood. Bloody hell, it had been a while since he could properly saunter. As he passed the still mumbling man, he whispered a soft, “Come on, then.”

That shut him up. By the time the man’s brain kicked back in gear and he turned to face his room, it was to find the demon had flopped down on the far side of his bed, face down in the pillow and lengthy limbs sprawled everywhere. “This is so much more comfortable than the cellar. Or the sofa.” When Crowley didn’t hear a response or any indication of movement, he turned his head on the pillow to look at the man still standing in the doorway. “Well? You going to sleep now or what?”

Aziraphale’s smile was brighter than the sun as he padded over to the bed and climbed in. They both laid there, arms barely touching, and let sleep take them.

Anthony decided to check in on them once the sun started to rise. The bedroom window faced west so the room was still dark, but the gold and copper curls, almost braided together where they met on the pillow, seemed to glow. Most mornings Aziraphale would have been up and about by this time, but the blond man hadn’t so much as stirred. Even if he had been awake, Anthony figured that he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere, not with the long arm casually lain across his waste. The cat took in the sight of his owner and his best friend, (he loathed to admit it to himself but it was true. There weren’t many options for friends as a house cat. Still, he would never admit so to the demon), and chuckled despite himself. After all that wasted effort, it looked like Crowley had finally obtained his goal. Anthony was never more sure of anything as he was that the demon would be successfully haunting his angel for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for your support and your comments and for sticking with me through this whole thing. I'm so sad to be leaving this story but I feel like I left the boys in a good place. As always, your comments and kudos make me the happiest person on Earth. You're all amazing, beautiful people. Until next time! <3


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> acumirklis commented and asked me a million years ago to do an epilogue for this story, and now that I'm supposed to be writing my thesis, all the inspiration came to me. I love this story and it was a lot of fun to revisit my babes for a bit. I hope this is a satisfying conclusion for everyone :)

It was a strange thing, being in a relationship with a supernatural being, but mostly strange in the way that it wasn’t very strange at all. Sure, Crowley preferred to watch Aziraphale eat rather than have anything himself, but that really just meant more for Aziraphale, and he had finally begun to fill out his khakis and sweater vests again. And lots of people talked to their pets, so walking in on an argument between Crowley and Anthony, (a nearly daily occurrence), was surely at least somewhat of a shared experience between pet owners. Besides, there were plenty of advantages: if Aziraphale wanted to eat somewhere, they had no trouble getting a reservation, the cellar never seemed to run out of wine, and the garden had never been greener and more beautiful, (even if Aziraphale occasionally found the flowers shaking on a perfectly windless day.)

Needless to say, the last few years had been much more joyful than Aziraphale would have thought to expect after his friend’s death. 

He had asked Crowley about Terry once, when the warm September sun had filtered through the sitting room window and Aziraphale had found himself clutching the small eyepiece gifted to his friend over two and a half years before.

“I can’t imagine that he would have ended up… He was such an incredible man, so I’m sure… Even with the trouble he liked to cause… I just wonder about how he’s doing.” 

Crowley watched his angel’s back from his spot sprawled across the couch. Aziraphale’s shoulders were tense as he scanned the titles sitting snugly on one of the many bookshelves adorning the walls. The demon exchanged a look with the cat before standing up in a way that certainly couldn’t be replicated by anyone with a human skeletal structure and sauntered over to stand behind the blond man. He flinched but quickly relaxed as long black-clad arms snaked their way around his soft waist. “From everything you’ve told me about him,” Crowley’s voice came out as a warm hiss, like breath released by sudden relaxation, released by the hug of a loved one. “I’m sure he’s somewhere safe.” There was a short pause as Aziraphlae nodded. Crowley wasn’t sure it was a conscious action. He tightened his arms slightly. “I’m almost disappointed. Would have loved to meet the guy. Still, better that I miss out than the alternative.”

There was another silence, and then Aziraphale turned to face his demon, hands still clutching the monocle. “What’s heaven like?” His voice was so small. Crowley hated when he sounded like this. It had gotten less and less common in the time he’d lived here, (well, corporeally lived here), but still, every now and then, Aziraphale would flash those big blue eyes, slight crease appearing between them, and speak in that tone that sounded like it was one harsh breeze away from breaking.

“I haven’t been there in a very, very long time, angel.”

“I know. And I know it’s not exactly fair to be asking you any of this, it’s just,” he swallowed and dropped his gaze to his tartan socks, “you said the Angels - the real Angels - were horrible. Manipulative and cruel and deceiving. How… how is he supposed to be safe and happy in a place run by beings like that?”

Crowley frowned, feeling slightly guilty. He wouldn’t apologize for his spite towards the Angels. Each one of them was a great heaping pile of pricks and he wasn’t about to lie about that. But he hated worrying his angel, even by accident. (The one exception was driving him in the Bentley, but a healthy dose of demonic intervention kept that worry from resulting in any real damage.) He contemplated the platinum curls below his chin, then, having decided something, Crowley gave a curt nod and moved his arms down so he could lift Aziraphale’s thighs up and around his waist. It had become a slightly more difficult task in the last year or so, but he was a demon, dammit, and if he wanted to pick someone up, then he would bloody well pick them up. Aziraphale let out a squeal, (“I do not  _ squeal _ dear. I may let out a surprised yell, but it’s not a squeal.” “Angel, I love you, and you definitely, 100% squeal like a little girl.”), as Crowley carried him over to the sofa and sat down. Anthony gave them both reproachful looks and slunk over to the chair as Crowley rearranged Aziraphale until the man was curled up in the demon’s lap, head resting on his shoulder so the blond curls tickled the edge of his jaw. 

“Shut it.” Aziraphale looked up confusedly only to see Crowley glaring at the cat.

“What did he say?”

Crowley returned his attention to blue eyes, and a very fetching pink dusted itself across his cheeks, making his freckles stand out. “Nothing that needs repeating.” He cleared his throat, completely unnecessarily. “Right, anyway. The thing about Heaven is… it’s big.”

“... Big?”

“Yeah. Real bloody big. I mean, has to be, doesn’t it? Lots going on. So there’s all these different… I guess you could call them departments. Different departments in charge of different jobs. There’s those that are in charge of things happening on Earth, making sure everything’s good with the ‘Great Plan,’” he said this part with distaste, as if merely mentioning the thing was equivalent to swallowing mud, or gas station coffee, which he often argued were essentially the same, “those in charge of other angels, even those in charge of making sure they  _ obtain _ enough souls… but then there’s those that are in charge of the souls they already have. The part of Heaven where the angels wander about is, as far as I can remember, cold, clean, and bloody bright. Essentially a big office building, yeah? Actually, that’s where the main entrance is right now. Some stupid glass monstrosity in Central London.”

“Crowley, you like those glass monstrosities.” Crowley looked down to see the small hint of amusement on Aziraphale’s face. Good, that’s progress. 

“Well, yeah, the cool ones designed specifically to spite the engineers and most laws of physics. Not the boring ones that are there just to fill space.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. “Right, so the Angels like wandering around in a big white box. But the part of Heaven where the souls are, the part with the humans… that part is what you lot think of when you think of Heaven. It’s paradise. Perfect and lovely and as close to human as those gits could possibly get. Kind of ironic, really.”

“What’s that, dear.”

The demon shrugged. “The best part of Heaven is the one part the Angels aren’t really supposed to go. But my point is, my  _ point _ is,” he gave Aziraphala a little squeeze, “the souls that go to Heaven are happy. Really, angel. They are. And I’m sure Terry is tearing it up, having the time of his afterlife up there.”

Under the demon’s chin, the head of curls gave a small nod. He was still holding the monocle, fingers gently brushing along the nickel frame. “He would have loved you, you know. You two would have gotten on like a house on fire. Which, incidentally, is something I believe you’ve both caused at one point or another.”

“You have no proof. Now,” Crowley released his arms from their position around Aziraphale’s waist, “what would you say to some cake?” The demon gave a snap with a graceful upward flick of his wrist and the smell of something sweet started wafting in from the direction of the kitchen. 

Aziraphale gave a little pout. “Dear, you know it’s not as good when you just miracle it up like that.”

Crowley let out an exaggerated sigh, that would probably be more accurately labeled as a groan, and rolled his head back on his shoulders. “ _ Satan _ , you humans are always so picky. Cake is cake.”

“I _ have _ standards.” Aziraphale stood and went about straightening his waistcoat as the demon continued to grumble on the sofa. 

“Not as good when I miracle the cake, not as good when I miracle the laundry, not as good when I miracle the lube-” This last comment earned him a hardy  _ smack _ directly to the chest. “ _ Oof _ . Oi, watch it, angel. I’m delicate.”

This caused another eyeroll. “Oh,  _ please _ . We both know that if I were to cause you damage, it would hardly be from  _ that _ .” He turned away and began making his way towards the door, but Crowley thought he heard the blond mutter something under his breath that sounded like, “It would be from something  _ much _ more fun than that.”

Crowley couldn’t stop his smirk and pulled himself off his seat to follow Aziraphale to the door. “Oh no. Where are you going? Is it something I said? Are you abandoning me with the cat?”

Aziraphale shook his head, attempting to hide his own responding smirk as he sat to pull on his Oxfords. “No. Although I don’t agree with your methods, cake does sound rather nice. What would you say to a trip over to Tracy’s?” The real estate agent that had sold Aziraphale his beautiful little cottage had decided to close her practice the year before, settling down and opening a small bakery along Tadfield’s High Street. While that alone wasn’t all that bizarre, her interest in Aziraphale’s old army friend, Shadwell, took a bit more getting used to. He had come by to visit spring before last for the first time since helping the blond move into his cottage and they had all decided to try out the lovely new little bakery. The two had been pining ever since.

“Sounds great, angel. I’ll drive.”

“You most certainly will not,” Aziraphale retorted, standing and pulling on his lighter summer coat. “It is a lovely day and there is no rush whatsoever. We’re walking.”

And so they wandered down the streets of Tadfield to the small bakery and ordered their cake, (and a scone, and maybe a croissant or two, Crowley wasn’t about to deny his angel a pastry), and sat and ate and chatted and watched the afternoon lazily drift towards dusk. They grabbed dinner on the way home and walked back home, hand in hand, deliberately passing Mr. Tyler’s place because Crowley relished in the old man’s obvious disdain. By the time they got home, the evening sky was flirting with nighttime, and they settled into the sitting room with a glass of wine each, takeaway container settled on Aziraphale’s lap. 

They chatted and debated and joked well into the night until Crowley started to yawn. It still struck Aziraphale as rather funny that the being who didn’t technically need to sleep still spent much more time unconscious than he did. They headed into the bedroom, Crowley sauntering a bit more haphazardly than he would normally, and changed into their sleep clothes, (Aziraphale in blue pinstriped PJs and Crowley in boxers and a worn Queen shirt), before crawling into bed, Crowley wrapping himself around the angel like the serpent Aziraphale knew him once to be. 

The next morning, (11:52 was still morning, thank you very much), Crowley was woken by a knocking on the door, followed by Aziraphale’s voice coming from the kitchen: “Dear, would you get that? I’m a bit tied up.” Crowley resisted the urge to respond with  _ I wish _ and rolled out of bed. With a snap, he was wearing black skinny jeans over his boxers so as not to scar whoever dared interrupt his sleep. Pulling open the door, the demon found himself face to face with a witch. “What?”

“Good morning to you too.” Anathema made her way into the house, giving the demon’s copper curls a ruffle on her way by. He just grumbled and went to shut the door, but it was pushed back open by a fluffy-haired teenager. 

“Nice shirt, Crowley.”

“Thanks, Adam.” Adam was followed by Pepper and Brian, who both offered their own greetings, (“Hey, old man.” “Hi, Crowley!”) and behind them was Wensley and Newt locked deeply into a conversation about… something to do with numbers. Whatever, those two were weird.

Once everyone was through the door, Crowley shut it and turned to shout towards the back of the house. “Oi! Aziraphale! You didn’t tell me you had invited a parade over!”

His indignance was responded only with, “It’s Sunday, dearest.”

Pause. 

“Is not.”

“Is too,” chorused the teenagers.

Crowley lumbered his way to the kitchen to find Anathema taking her station next to Aziraphale at the stove. He noticed the demon standing there and threw him a smile before continuing, “I’ve also invited over Tracy and Shadwell, so I thought we’d eat out in the garden. Have a bit more room. And it is such a lovely day.” Crowley turned to the dining room to find that the Them were indeed grabbing chairs and carrying them to the backdoor. Fortunately they didn’t have to lug out the dining table anymore. Two summers before, when the weather had started to warm, they had purchased an outdoor table specifically for this purpose and settled it on the back patio. Newt was already sitting happily at his spot, having learned a while ago that it was better to just stay out of the way rather than risk dropping the fruit salad. In the early days, he had tried to help with the table and ended up knocking off one of the legs. Crowley had quickly miracled it fixed and everyone mostly just thought it was funny, but after that he elected to wait at the table until food was served.

Crowley turned back to the two bustling in the kitchen. “Do I have to put real clothes on?”

“No, that’s alright, dear,” said Aziraphale at the same time Anathema said, “Yes, you bloody disaster.” Then she turned to a smirking angel. “Did I use that right?”

“Yes, I believe you did.” He turned to face his partner with an indulgent smile. “If you would be willing, dear, but you don’t have to.”

“That means yes,” chirped Anathema.

“Yeah, I’m aware.” He sighed dramatically but made his way back to their room to get changed.

By the time he was buttoning up his waistcoat, (he was keeping the jeans on, dammit, but he could at least pretend to look like he was trying), there was another knock at the door.

“Got it!” he called down the hall, sliding along the hardwood to get the door. He pulled it open and was surprised to find both Tracy and Shadwell. He hadn’t expected the two of them to come together. “Hey, guys. Come on in.”

Tracy smiled and gave him a “Thanks, love,” while Shadwell merely grunted and stepped in behind her.

Sunday brunch, (or lunch, as it always turned out to be), was just as nice as it had been every other week for the last two years or more. Aziraphale had made a lovely spread with the assistance of Anathema and the table was laden with sausages, eggs, fruit, juice, and crepes, which Aziraphale spent a month teaching himself to make. Seated around the slightly too small table were familiar faces, laughing and smiling and generally enjoying each other’s company under the late summer sun. As the afternoon marched on, Aziraphale felt his worries from the previous day fade. Even the question he hadn’t asked Crowley, about what would happen if he himself went to Heaven, a place the demon could no longer go, seemed to become inconsequential. Aziraphale hadn’t had faith in a very long time, but sitting in his back garden with all the people he loved most in the world, next to his grinning demon whose hair shone like fire and eyes like molten gold, he found it incredibly doubtful that everything wouldn’t turn out alright. They had time, they had love, and they had the world. And even if neither of them could find it in themselves to have faith in God anymore, at least they could have faith in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am blown away by how much attention this fic has received and I can't express how much you all rock. I'm supposed to be working on so many other things, including my Royalty AU, but this is what I did instead and I have no regrets. Comment and kudos, if you feel like it. They make me all warm and fuzzy inside. Until next time <3

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this was originally just going to be a one shot but I ended up really getting into it? Oops. Anyway, if you liked it and want more, PLEASE feel free to light a fire under my ass, I am terrible at updating but I don't want to leave anyone hanging. I have one more chapter written but after that it's kinda up in the air. Kudos and comments especially are always welcomed and loved!


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